UCSB  LIBRARY 


"Nine   Ijjiddish   IDriiers 

Critical  Appreciations 


By 

HARRY  ROGOFF 


FOREWORD 

In  the  assembling  and  publication  in  book-form 
of  these  appreciations  of  Yiddish  writers  by  HARRY 
ROGOFF  there  is  an  appropriateness  that  is  especially 
marked  at  this  time:  the  old  gods  of  Yiddish  writing 
are  securely  enthroned;  the  new  are  yet  enshrouded 
in  uncertainty. 

At  such  a  time  it  is  well  to  turn  back  these  interest- 
ing pages  of  Yiddish  literary  history  in  America. 
Random  though  these  notations  may  be,  they  are 
peep-holes  through  which  the  observant  eye  may 
gather  some  estimate  of  the  scope  and  liveliness  of 
that  literary  activity  which  engaged  the  lover  of  Yid- 
dish literature  a  decade  or  two  ago.  In  these  pages, 
taken  out  of  the  short-lived  journal  "EAST  AND 
WEST/'  of  which  Mr.  Rogoff  was  the  editor,  the 
student  no  less  than  the  casual  reader  may  find  in- 
struction as  well  as  pleasure. 

In  these  brief  essays,  filled  with  intimate  observa- 
tions on  the  lives  and  work  of  representative  Yiddish 
writers,  we  are  brought  into  contact  with  a  mind  that 


has  been  at  all  times  keenly  responsive  to  the  cre- 
ative forces  in  Jewish  life,  helpfully  proud  of  the 
best  impulses,  intellectual  and  spiritual,  in  the  Jew- 
ish community.  For  here,  set  down  at  a  time  when 
reputations  were  still  in  the  balance,  are  judgments 
which  time  has  sustained  and  insights  which  are  no 
less  pointed  because  they  have  won  general  accep- 
tance. 

It  must  be  clear  to  that  friend  of  Yiddish  litera- 
ture, who  is  also  a  reader  in  it,  that  these  critical 
sketches  of  Rogoffs  have  their  validity  in  our  own 
time.  A  reading  of  them,  fifteen  years  after  they 
were  written,  shows  that  they  were  a  natural  out- 
growth of  that  movement  of  self-analysis  and  self- 
criticism  of  which  American  Yiddish  literature  stood 
so  greatly  in  need.  Although  creative  workers  are 
never  too  numerous,  Yiddish  writers  were  plentiful. 
The  controversies  of  the  day  pointed  to  the  need  of 
some  clarification  of  the  diverse  impulses  which  were 
alive  in  the  literary  movements  of  those  days. 

To  that  unsettled  period  Rogoff  brought  his  con- 
tribution of  a  sound  critical  mind  reinforced  by  fa- 
miliarity with  the  criteria  that  have  shaped  the  great 
literatures  of  the  world. 

His  discernment  and  critical  honesty  gave  him  the 


right  to  set  up  those  criteria  of  artistic  integrity  so 
sorely  needed  by  writers  who  were  wholly  absorbed 
in  the  battle  of  the  work-a-day  world.  The  Yiddish 
writer,  knowing  few  of  the  comforts  that  come  with 
the  support  of  a  leisured  middle-class,  has  always 
been  in  the  midst  of  that  daily  battle  for  a  liveli- 
hood. 

"To  be  sincere  and  faithful  in  art  is  as  difficult  as 
to  be  sincere  and  faithful  in  other  activities  of  life," 
is  a  view  with  which  Rogoff  admonished  these  writ- 
ers. Whereupon  he  pointed  out  that  the  artist's  mis- 
sion is  "to  see  life  as  it  is  and  to  depict  it  in  its  own 
colors," — the  comic  together  with  the  grim;  the 
idealistic  and  the  noble,  together  with  the  sordid; 
the  hopeful  as  well  as  the  despairing;  the  tender  and 
poetic  as  validly  as  the  brutal.  In  other  words, 
Rogoff  was  spokesman  of  the  idea  that  the  artist 
dare  not  take  sides  in  the  business  of  life  since  he 
has  business  in  his  own  domain,  with  demands  and 
standards,  with  purposes  and  ideals  that  are  suffi- 
ciently exacting  to  call  for  the  very  best  in  the  artist. 

Varied  as  are  the  subjects  of  these  essays,  this  one 
point  of  view  informs  them  all — the  vigorous  insist- 
ence on  the  integrity  of  the  writer.  There  must  be 
"no  compromise,"  says  Rogoff,  "but  (onlyl  i  firm 


faith  in  one's  art."  Again  and  again  he  raises  his 
voice  against  the  inclination,  on  the  part  of  some  of 
these  men  he  speaks  for,  to  yield  to  the  forces  ex- 
ternal to  their  own  sincerest  impulses. 

Nor  is  Rogoff  one-sided  in  his  appreciation.  Given 
over  to  an  interest  and  a  genuine  enjoyment  of  the 
work  of  the  realist,  he  is  capable  at  the  same  time 
of  generous  acceptance  and  interpretation  of  the 
sincere  production  of  such  originals  as  L.  Shapiro 
and  Jonah  Rosenfeld.  In  viewing  such  work,  Rogoff 
stands  by  the  individual  promptings  of  the  writer, 
with  no  preconceptions  and  no  exactions  other  than 
that  the  artist  create  firmly  and  persuasively  in  his 
own  image. 

If  it  is  a  new  world  which  the  writer  has  created, 
one  which  the  reader  cannot  verify  by  the  test  of 
"life  as  it  is,"  and  "in  its  own  colors,"  Rogoff  asks 
whether  it  takes  shape  and  color,  dimension  and 
dynamic  reality  from  the  authentic  vision  which  has 
fostered  it.  If  so,  he  is  for  it.  Thus  he  says  of  a 
story  by  Shapiro:  "The  story  is  not  real,  but  it  is  a 
great  achievement,  nevertheless.  For  an  artist  has 
conceived  it,  nurtured  it,  loved  it,  named  it  with  his 
own  light,  strengthened  it  with  his  blood.  It  has 
existence  because  an  artist  has  created  it." 


One  must  conclude  that  the  magazine  "EAST  AND 
WEST/'  which  was  the  occasion  of  excellent  pioneer 
work  in  the  presentation  of  Yiddish  writing  to 
American  readers,  was  the  occasion  also  of  present- 
ing to  Yiddish  writers  a  critic  who  spoke  for  them 
with  sympathy,  courage,  and  discernment. 

HENRY  GOODMAN. 


Vii 


CONTENTS 

Foreword iii 

Morris  Rosenfeld 3 

The  Genius  of  Perez 13 

Abraham  Liessin 29 

Abraham  Reisin ...      .  39 

L.  Shapiro 51 

Zalmon  Libin 61 

Jonah  Rosenfeld 75 

Sholom  Asch      ........  95 

Leon  Kobrin       .       .       .  109 


MORRIS  ROSENFELD 
<-An  ^Appreciation 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 

May,   1915 


1  HERE  was  a  time  when  a 

hierarchy  of  literary  gods  reigned  over  the  intellec- 
tual elements  of  the  East  Side.  On  Mount  Parnassus 
of  the  Ghetto  sat  enthroned  the  higher  and  lesser 
divinities — each  in  his  undisputed  place,  each  enjoy- 
ing the  devotion  of  hosts  of  worshippers. 

That  was  in  the  beginning  of  things — fifteen, 
twenty  years  ago — when  Yiddish  playwrights  ped- 
dled newspapers  for  a  living,  and  Yiddish  poets 
composed  their  songs  while  threading  needles  in  the 
sweat  shops.  Literature  then  was  a  thankless  task; 
and  only  their  mutual  encouragement  and  sympathy 
kept  the  Gods  from  abdicating  en  masse. 

In  those  rainy,  chilly  April  days  of  Yiddish  letters 
in  this  country,  Morris  Rosenfeld  was  the  acknowl- 
edged poet  of  the  ghetto.  None  contested  that  title, 
none  begrudged  it.  He  bemoaned  the  Ghetto's  sor- 
rows and  pains;  he  ridiculed  its  pretentions  and 
foibles;  he  glorified  its  strivings  and  ideals. 


[5] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

But  times  have  changed  since.  In  fact,  as  well  as  in 
myth,  Gods  don't  dwell  in  peace  very  long.  There 
came  a  moment  when  supremacy  meant  power,  use- 
ful utilitarian  power;  and  the  Gods  began  to  battle 
for  position.  The  war  extended  over  half  a  decade, 
and  was  carried  on  in  the  usual  brutal  manner.  Rep- 
utations were  dragged  down  into  the  mire.  Holy 
books  were  torn  into  shreds  by  the  merciless  hand 
of  criticism.  In  the  general  eruption  none  was 
spared.  Each  destroyed  and  was  destroyed  in  turn. 
Thus  do  gods  fight. 

Rosenfeld  shared  the  common  fate.  He  was  at- 
tacked and  criticized.  His  genius  was  called  into 
question;  his  personality  was  denounced.  And 
though  the  battle  has  almost  subsided,  he  is  still 
being  harassed  and  tormented. 

No  other  Yiddish  writer  has  suffered  so  much 
abuse,  so  much  ridicule,  at  the  hands  of  his  col- 
leagues. Each  and  every  one  of  his  faults,  weaknesses 
and  mistakes  have  formed  themes  for  innumerable 
attacks  and  satires  in  the  press.  And  defenders  he 
has  none,  none  but  his  own  venomous  pen.  For  the 
truth  must  be  told,  Rosenfeld  has  admirers,  adorers, 
worshippers;  but  of  friends,  sincere,  hearty  friends, 
he  has  none. 

[6] 


MORRIS  ROSENFELD 

And  that  is  the  tragedy  of  the  poet,  who  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  has  sung  the  tragedy  of  the  most 
tragic  nation  in  history. 

Behold  him  pacing  the  street  in  the  Yiddish 
newspaper  row  where  he  comes  once  or  twice  a 
week  to  see  his  editor.  He  is  alone.  In  one  hand  a 
heavy  cane,  in  the  other  a  book  or  manuscript.  There 
is  a  perceptible  limp  in  his  step,  the  result  of  an 
apoplectic  attack  that  almost  sent  him  to  the  grave 
ten  years  ago.  Sometimes  his  face  is  calm  and 
smooth.  Other  times  it  is  filled  with  anguish  that 
seems  to  express  bodily  pain  as  well  as  mental  suf- 
fering. 

In  his  greeting  one  cannot  fail  to  observe  an  in- 
ternal sick  nervousness.  It  consists  of  an  exaggerated 
bow,  a  piercing  glance  followed  by  a  smile,  a 
chuckle  and  a  peculiar  remark. 

His  forehead  and  skull  are  also  striking.  Thin 
silky  hair,  standing  erect  in  disorderly  array,  cover  a 
perfectly  round  head.  Beneath  is  a  high  forehead, 
furrowed  and  almost  always  of  ruddy  tinge.  You 
glance  at  it  and  you  are  struck.  You  know  that  en- 
closed in  that  skull  lodges  a  restless,  impulsive,  fiery 
brain. 


[7] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

Hear  him  talk,  or  rather  watch  him  talk.  What 
expressiveness,  what  exaggerated  emphasis,  what 
passionate  insistence.  He  nudges  you  with  his  elbow, 
demands  approval  of  every  remark,  dictates  your 
answers.  You  wonder,  is  he  sincere?  Is  his  soul  on 
fire?  One  moment  he  pouts  like  a  child,  another  he 
denounces  like  a  prophet,  the  third  he  flatters  like  a 
lackey,  the  fourth  he  glories  like  a  king.  It's  acting, 
you  conclude,  acting  of  the  high  artistic  kind,  that 
is  full  of  soul  and  heart.  Perhaps,  but  listen  to  the 
subject  matter  and  you  will  be  convinced  that  you 
are  mistaken.  He  talks  on  a  topic  that  is  nearest 
and  dearest  to  his  soul,  he  speaks  of  the  one  thing 
in  which  his  entire  being  is  centered.  Yes,  he  speaks 
of  himself,  always  himself. 

Vanity,  the  power  and  the  weakness  of  the  artist, 
has  been  Rosenfeld's  good  and  bad  angel  in  life. 
It  was  the  desire  of  glory,  the  dream  of  renown  and 
distinction,  that  marvelous  passion  that  chained  Bal- 
zac eighteen  hours  a  day  to  his  writing  desk,  which 
also  made  of  the  poor  little  sweatshop  tailor  a  poet 
whose  fame  will  endure  for  many,  many  years.  But 
that  same  passion  is  responsible  for  the  many  prac- 
tical errors  he  has  committed,  for  a  great  measure  of 
suffering  he  has  endured,  for  the  utter  destitution  in 
which  he  is  now  placed. 

[8] 


MORRIS  ROSENFELD 

One  day  his  face  is  bright,  his  walk  light,  his  head 
erect.  Just  stop  him  a  while  and  you  will  know  the 
reason.  A  critic  in  Hungary  has  praised  his  work, 
a  publisher  in  Germany  is  preparing  a  new  edition 
of  his  songs,  or  perhaps  a  letter  from  an  admirer 
has  offered  some  incense.  On  the  next  day  his  face  is 
a  sombre  cloud,  his  eyes  dull,  his  head  and  shoul- 
ders drooping — a  critic  wrote  favorably  of  another 
Jewish  poet,  a  publisher  undertook  the  publication 
of  one  of  his  colleague's  songs.  That  and  nothing 
more. 

*     *     * 

Yiddish  literature  has  just  struck  root.  Its  stem 
is  hardly  visible  above  ground.  The  destiny  fate  pre- 
pared for  it  no  one  can  tell  with  absolute  certainty. 
Every  literary  plant  needs  the  firm  soil  of  nationality 
for  its  roots,  and  the  sunshine  and  moisture  of  na- 
tional culture  for  its  nourishment,  and  these  ele- 
ments are  very  uncertain  with  the  Jewish  people  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  an  intense  wave  of  the  national 
spirit  has  been  agitating  its  most  important  centers 
in  Europe  and  America. 

However,  if  Jewish  literature  is  destined  to  live 
and  grow,  Rosenfeld  will  undoubtedly  occupy  in  it 
the  rank  of  a  classic.  For  Rosenfeld  possesses  the  es- 

[9] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

sential  and  peculiar  qualities  that  assure  for  the  lit- 
erary man  lasting  memory. 

To  begin  with,  Rosenfeld  is  before  all  else  a 
Jewish  writer.  His  is  the  truly  national  genius.  His 
pathos,  his  humor,  his  satire,  his  general  outlook 
upon  life,  are  all  unmistakably  Jewish.  Like  many 
of  his  colleagues,  Rosenfeld  had  no  liberal  educa- 
tion, no  European  culture.  He  began  to  study  Eng- 
lish and  read  German  after  his  genius  had  ripened. 
Since  then,  he  has  read  widely  in  all  poetry,  but  that 
only  helped  to  develop  him  on  the  road  he  had 
started.  It  didn't  broaden  his  view,  it  didn't  enrich 
his  ideas,  it  didn't  corrupt  his  intensely  Jewish  in- 
dividuality. 

His  second  claim  to  classic  prominence  is  his 
wide  universal  appeal.  In  the  age  of  literary  rest- 
lessness and  iconoclasm,  when  the  healthy  common- 
place passions  are  almost  tabooed  and  all  but  ad- 
ventitious growths  fill  the  garden  of  letters,  Rosen- 
feld remains  faithful  to  the  sound  and  sane  school. 
He  deals  with  the  sorrow  and  joys  that  are  known 
to  all  Jewish  hearts — the  same  emotions  that  thrilled 
their  ancestors  generations  ago,  and  that  will  agitate 
the  souls  of  their  offspring  for  the  generations  to 
come.  Symbolism,  mysticism,  decadence — all  these 

[10] 


MORRIS  ROSENFELD 

are  foreign  to  him.  He  ridicules  them  in  his  writings 
and  denounces  them  in  his  conversation. 

And  he  is  as  simple  and  lucid  in  his  style  as  in 
his  substance.  That  is  his  third  hold  on  classic 
survival.  Rosenfeld  helped  to  create  and  model  a 
literary  idiom  in  Jewish  literature.  Himself  thor- 
oughly saturated  with  the  Jewish  spirit,  all  his  verbal 
inventions  are  characteristically  Yiddish.  His  coin- 
ages are  hardly  ever  rejected,  hardly  ever  modified. 
He  will  forever  remain  an  authority  on  style  and 
idiom. 

Speaking  from  a  purely  layman's  standpoint,  Ros- 
enfeld should  be  thoroughly  content  with  the  con- 
quest he  has  made,  with  the  terrority  that  is  univer- 
sally conceded  to  him  beyond  dispute.  To  rise  out 
of  an  obscure  sweatshop,  out  of  suffering  and  dis- 
appointment and  misery,  and  to  attain  those  glorious 
heights  of  literary  fame,  is  indeed  a  happiness  that 
befalls  only  the  few  chosen  by  the  Gods.  But  Rosen- 
feld is  not  happy.  His  soul  craves  for  tribute,  for 
incessant  worship,  for  constant  reward,  and  this  so- 
ciety refuses  to  grant  him. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 
June,   1915 


A.  TRUE  literary  genius  embodies 
the  age  in  which  he  is  born.  He  absorbs  it  and  ex- 
presses it.  He  is  to  his  society  what  the  sun  is  to  the 
earth,  shedding  its  rays  and  bestowing  its  warmth 
upon  all,  giving  light  to  the  stone,  and  color  to  the 
flower,  stirring  the  cock  to  crow  and  the  lark  to 
sing,  laying  bare  the  poisonous  marsh  in  all  its 
hideousness,  and  the  rippling  stream  in  all  its  splen- 
dor. 

And  the  true  literary  genius  is  as  rare  as  the  suns 
are  in  heaven.  Planets  and  stars,  constellations  of  all 
kinds,  bigger  and  smaller,  may  fill  the  skies  in  num- 
bers uncountable ;  but  the  great  sun,  the  source  of  all 
light  is  always  one;  and  sometimes  long,  long  nights 
pass  before  it  looms  up  on  the  horizon  and  climbs 
into  the  center  of  heaven  in  the  full  display  of  its 
glory. 

The  first  genius  in  Yiddish  literature  was  Isaac 
Leibush  Perez.  He  was  born  in  a  little  town  in  Rus- 
sian Poland,  in  the  year  1851,  when  Jewish  hopes 

[15] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

seemed  to  glisten  in  the  distance;  his  genius  blos- 
somed in  the  eighties,  when  the  first  blast  of  the 
pogroms  wiped  out  all  light  and  hope;  and  his  life 
expired  just  a  few  weeks  ago,  amidst  the  deluge  of 
blood  that  came  pouring  upon  the  Jewish  communi- 
ties in  the  wake  of  the  terrible  war. 

The  old  Jewish  myth  endowed  the  Jewish  race 
with  three  Patriarchs,  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob. 
This  myth  is  a  reality  in  Yiddish  literature.  Its 
fathers  are  indeed  three,  though,  unlike  the  fabled 
analogy,  they  were  all  of  the  same  generation.  Two 
of  them  are  still  among  the  living — Abramovitz  who 
has  nearly  completed  his  eightieth  year,  and  Rabin- 
ovitz,  who  is  but  a  few  years  younger  than  was  his 
deceased  colleague,  Perez. 

We  term  them  fathers  in  no  mere  figurative  sense. 
With  them  Yiddish  literature  was  born.  They  cre- 
ated it  out  of  nothingness.  Before  them  all  was 
chaos.  Abramovitz  was  the  first  on  the  scene,  and 
to  his  lot  fell  a  great  part  of  the  preparatory  work. 
He  cleared  the  ground  of  the  rubbish  with  which  it 
was  covered,  ploughed  it  and  turned  the  sod.  Like 
Abraham,  the  first  of  the  Patriarchs,  Abramowitz  dis- 
covered the  God,  the  spirit  of  Yiddish  literature, 
and  entered  into  a  covenant  with  it.  Before  him 
[16] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

literary  Jews  wrote  in  Hebrew.  Yiddish  they  de- 
spised as  a  barbarous  jargon,  a  "language  of  captiv- 
ity," an  emblem  of  slavery,  unsuited  and  impossible 
for  artistic  purposes.  They  called  Hebrew  the  "mis- 
tress" and  Yiddish,  her  "handmaiden." 

And  all  these  epithets  ascribed  to  the  language 
were  indeed  true.  In  order  to  write  literature  in 
Yiddish,  the  language  had  to  be  molded  and  cast 
into  an  artistic  form.  Abramovitz  took  up  the  task 
and  accomplished  it  to  wonderful  perfection.  This 
the  first  and  perhaps  the  greatest  service  that  he  did 
to  his  literature. 

But  he  went  still  further.  With  these  implements 
that  he  had  himself  created,  he  dug  up  the  raw  ma- 
terial from  which  precious  literary  metals  were  later 
extracted.  He  was  the  first  of  the  Yiddish  writers 
who  turned  to  the  study  of  the  Jew  as  a  distinct 
people,  a  nation  amongst  nations,  a  race  amongst 
races.  He  portrayed  the  Jewish  tragedy  in  allegory 
and  in  fiction.  He  embodied  both  the  merits  and 
defects  of  all  Jews  in  general  types,  heroic,  pathetic, 
and  pitiful.  His  literature  is  social,  racial.  His 
plots  are  puerile,  the  characters  uncertain,  the  style 
confusing.  But  there  is  spirit  and  soul  pervading 
it  all — there  is  a  living  atmosphere  in  which  his 

[17] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

creatures  breathe  and  act,  and  that  spirit  and  soul 
and  atmosphere  are  Jewish,  thoroughly  and  pro- 
foundly Jewish. 

Abramovitz  laid  bare  the  great  sources  of  pas- 
sion and  emotion  that  stir  in  the  Jewish  heart;  he 
revealed  the  general  outlines  of  the  social  structure 
the  Jew  has  built  for  himself  in  the  ghettoes  of  Rus- 
sia and  Poland;  he  threw  out  in  bold  relief  a  sketch 
of  the  Jew's  internal  tragedy  resulting  from  his  ter- 
rible position  amongst  the  nations.  It  was  a  gigantic 
achievement,  a  great  literary  feat  that  he  had  ac- 
complished. As  a  pioneer,  no  greater  work  could 
have  been  wrought  by  him. 

But  speaking  from  a  strictly  artistic  standpoint, 
Abramovitz  did  not  possess  the  "key  that  opens  the 
golden  gate."  There  is  too  much  argument  and  too 
little  life  in  all  his  creations.  His  artistic  eye  never 
penetrated  deep  into  the  heart  of  things.  Rather  was 
the  light  diffused,  spread  out  and  dim.  Very  rarely 
does  he  grow  ecstatic  or  exalted;  very  rarely  does 
he  lose  his  "presence  of  mind"  in  the  flood  of  emo- 
tion. 

It  was  left  to  the  two  younger  fathers  of  Yiddish 
literature,  Rabinovitz  (Sholem  Aleichem)  and  Perez 
to  enter  into  the  very  holy  of  holies  of  literary  art. 
[18] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

And  they  earned  that  honorable  distinction  of  being 
called  "fathers,"  though  coming  later  than  Abram- 
ovitz,  because  they  were  the  first  to  approach  the 
shrine,  and  light  the  taper  of  Yiddish  literature  at 
the  sacred  fire.  Abramovitz  discovered  the  road, 
cleared  it,  laid  out  the  path,  and  led  the  procession, 
but  never  entered  into  God's  land.  Perez  and  Rab- 
inowitz,  who  followed  him  all  the  way,  marched  in 
and  conquered. 

And  of  these  two  conquerors,  Perez  was  by  far 
the  mightier,  the  greater.  Sholem  Aleichem  dubbed 
himself  Grandson  of  old  Grandfather  Abramovitz, 
and  tried  hard  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  to  imitate 
his  manner  and  ways;  and  imitation  and  disciple- 
ship  are  poison  to  genuine  creative  power.  Sholem 
Aleichem' s  artistic  powers  are  also  limited.  He  is 
essentially  a  humorist.  His  eye  always  seeks  out  the 
comic,  the  laughable  in  life;  and,  like  all  humorists, 
he  at  times  grows  pathetic,  sentimentally  pathetic. 
But  neither  the  comic  nor  the  pathetic  in  life  are 
vital  or  essential.  They  may  tickle  the  soul  or 
touch  it,  but  never  stir  it.  They  may  affect  our  mood, 
pacify  our  passion,  lighten  our  hearts;  but  they  will 
not  impel  us  into  action,  drive  us  into  effort,  into 
destruction  or  creation ;  and  what  is  life  if  not  action 
— action  that  either  creates  or  destroys? 
[19] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

Perez  it  was  who  knew  this  great  secret  and  who 
also  possessed  the  power  to  follow  its  urging.  And 
that  is  why  we  call  him  the  first  true  genius  of  Yid- 
dish literature,  our  first  great  literary  mind  who  em- 
bodied his  age,  who  absorbed  it  and  gave  it  expres- 
sion. 

Jewish  life  is  never  at  a  standstill.  For  no  length 
of  time  is  its  history  stable,  balanced.  The  nation, 
like  the  individual,  is  ever  restless,  ever  nervous, 
ever  pushing  on,  pressing  forward.  That  is  why 
the  Jewish  element  of  every  civilized  country  is  al- 
ways in  the  vanguard  of  progress,  be  it  material, 
intellectual  or  moral. 

The  slow,  slight  evolution  in  industrial  develop- 
ment that  Russia  underwent  in  the  last  few  decades 
had  but  an  imperceptible  effect  on  the  great  peasant 
population  of  that  country.  At  most  it  modified 
somewhat  its  material  condition,  but  it  hardly 
touched  its  social  life,  and  certainly  never  influenced 
its  mental  or  moral  condition.  But  the  Jewish  ele- 
ment in  that  country  was  stirred  to  its  very  founda- 
tion. In  the  short  space  of  half  a  century,  Jewish 
life  in  Russia  evolved  from  a  state  of  medievalism 
to  that  of  advanced  modernism.  In  every  phase  of 
his  life  the  Jew  responded  to  the  impulse.  He  re- 

[20] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

formed  his  religion,  he  rebuilt  his  social  structure, 
he  changed  his  mouldy  views  on  industry,  politics 
and  morals.  He  filled  his  soul  with  new  ideals,  he 
fired  his  blood  with  fresh  hopes.  He  built  himself 
new  gods  in  the  image  of  the  spirit  of  civilized  Eu- 
rope. 

This  period  of  "Sturm  und  Drang"  in  the  life  of 
the  Russian  Jew  was  intensified  by  the  terrible  ob- 
stacles he  encountered  on  his  way,  by  the  terrible 
resistance  and  repulses  he  met  with  at  every  step 
and  on  every  turn.  It  was  a  severe  struggle  against 
united  powers,  intrinsic  and  extrinsic.  It  was  an 
awakening  of  the  soul  to  higher  conceptions,  to  no- 
bler aspirations,  and  a  strenuous  straining  against 
the  bars  and  chains  that  kept  it  confined  in  medi- 
aeval dungeons. 

Perez's  literary  powers  ripened  at  a  time  when  this 
struggle  had  taken  a  firm  hold  on  the  Jewish  com- 
munity. And  he  became  its  interpreter,  its  artist,  its 
priest.  And  as  the  evolution  pushed  forward  he 
marched  along  with  it.  He  never  closed  his  eyes 
and  heart  to  its  progress  or  to  its  strayings.  At  times 
he  even  led  the  way.  Occasionally  he  lagged  behind, 
but  he  was  always  in  the  procession,  always  in  line. 
And  very  seldom  in  any  other  capacity  than  that  of 

[21] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

the  artist,  the  interpreter  of  events  in  the  light  of 
emotions,  the  translator  of  mass-movements  in  the 
terms  of  the  individual's  feelings  and  soul-activity. 

The  great  movement  toward  light  in  the  Russian 
ghettos  began  with  a  revolt  against  the  old  religious 
fanaticism  and  the  synagogual  rule  over  the  com- 
munity, and  into  this  struggle  Perez  came  when  a 
youth  of  about  twenty.  His  first  literary  productions 
were  poems  and  songs  satirizing  and  denouncing  the 
evils  of  the  old  order  of  things.  Like  all  youthful 
attempts  of  this  kind,  their  artistic  value  was  quite 
meager.  But  Yiddish  literature  being  so  young  and 
so  poor  at  the  time,  they  were  welcome. 

This  battle  didn't  engage  Perez's  attention  for 
long.  It  was  soon  realized  by  him  that  the  spiritual 
condition  of  the  Jew  in  Poland  was  to  a  high  degree 
the  result  of  his  economic  misery.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  join  the  movement  of  the  awakening  prol- 
etarian in  the  small  ghetto  towns.  In  prose  and 
poetry  he  gave  artistic  expression  to  the  class  strug- 
gle, to  the  ideas  of  class  solidarity  and  class  division 
that  were  just  dawning  in  the  minds  of  the  Jewish 
workers  in  lagging  Russia.  He  also  drew  a  num- 
ber of  proletarian  types,  their  condition  of  life 
and  state  of  soul,  that  became  classic  and  won 
[22] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

for  him  the  love  and  admiration  of  the  entire  revo- 
lutionary youth  of  the  Jewish  Pale.  For  quite  a 
while  Perez  was  identified  with  the  workmen's 
movement.  He  was  its  artist,  its  literary  exponent 
and  interpreter. 

That  was  his  first  impulse,  but  his  spirit  grew,  his 
genius  developed  and  spread  until  it  became  as  wide 
and  as  deep  as  the  entire  Jewish  nation.  The  rays 
of  its  soul  fell  on  all  classes  and  factions,  on  all 
hills  and  dales  and  plains  of  the  Jewish  people.  And 
soul  rays  always  bring  love,  and  sympathy,  and 
consolation.  The  great  artist,  the  true  genius,  never 
despises,  never  hates,  for  he  is  like  a  father  to  all  he 
creates.  He  may  be  harsh,  he  may  denounce,  he  may 
punish,  but  the  note  of  deep  sympathy  is  never  ab- 
sent. The  basis  of  true  art  is  thorough  understand- 
ing, and  understanding  that  grows  out  of  feeling  is 
the  strongest  bond  between  human  souls. 

It  was  a  gradual  development,  a  gradual  climbing 
of  the  sun  from  the  low  depths  of  the  horizon  to 
its  zenith  in  the  center  of  the  sky.  At  first  his  rays 
fell  on  the  exterior  of  the  Jewish  ghetto.  He  saw 
more  of  the  material,  more  of  the  physical,  more  of 
the  flesh.  He  saw  the  misery,  the  uncertainty,  and 
the  dread  in  which  the  millions  of  Jews  existed  in 

[23] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

that  cursed  country.  He  saw  the  great  physical  trag- 
edy of  the  entire  race — the  marsh  of  poverty  in 
which  they  all  wallowed;  the  tradesman,  the  handi- 
craftsman, the  worker,  the  agent,  the  student,  the 
rabbi.  He  perceived  the  darkness  that  prevailed 
everywhere  in  the  community,  in  the  Cheder,  in  the 
Yeshiva,  in  the  communal  councils,  in  the  Rabbinical 
chambers,  in  the  family.  He  saw  it  all  at  the  begin- 
ning, in  all  its  physical  harshness,  and  drew  it  as  he 
saw  it  harshly  but  sympathetically.  He  blamed  fate 
and  quarreled  with  the  God  of  Vengeance.  To  the 
afflicted  Jew  he  brought  words  of  comfort  and  con- 
solation. He  urged  him  to  make  a  superhuman  effort 
and  lift  himself  out  of  the  mire — for  he  knew  the 
Jew  was  superhuman  and  possessed  the  strength 
for  rising  above  condition,  even  above  the  decrees 
of  inexorable  fate. 

This  purely  physical  view  didn't  remain  with 
Perez  for  long.  Gradually  he  began  to  temper  it  with 
a  spiritual  insight.  And  in  proportion  as  the  depth 
of  the  Jewish  spirit  was  revealed  to  him,  the  smaller 
the  physical  tragedy  appeared.  The  poverty  of  bread 
vanished  before  the  riches  of  the  soul ;  the  ignorance 
of  worldly  knowledge  disappeared  before  spiritual 
fortunes.  Not  that  Perez  ever  lost  sight  of  Jewish 

[24] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

material  suffering,  or  of  the  great  historical  crime 
that  all  Christian  nations  have  been  committing 
against  the  Jew.  Not  that  Perez  wished  to  minimize 
the  tragedy  of  our  long  exile;  not  that  he  attempted 
to  cover  up  our  defects,  our  weakness  of  soul  and 
spirit  that  resulted  from  these  nineteen  centuries  of 
lamb  life  among  the  wolves. 

Perez  sought  only  to  uncover  to  the  Jew,  to  his 
own  race,  the  mainspring  of  the  wonderful  power 
that  is  hidden  in  his  spirit.  He  sought  to  make  the 
Jew,  the  young  Jew,  conscious  of  his  strength,  of  his 
racial  and  national  force.  He  sought  to  reveal  to  him 
the  great  secret  of  the  ages,  the  great  mystery  of 
Israel's  everlasting  vitality. 

He  sought  it  in  the  wonderful  manner  that  artists 
always  seek  for  solutions  of  mysteries — unconscious- 
ly, unknowingly.  A  spirit  descends  upon  them,  a 
restlessness  enters  their  soul,  and  their  artistic  senses 
are  aroused,  excited  to  a  state  of  ecstasy.  Then,  of 
a  sudden,  the  inspiration  comes.  The  light  breaks, 
and  the  artist  sees  the  great  truth. 

Perez  perceived  a  supersoul  in  the  heart  of  every 
Jew  from  the  very  lowest  to  the  very  highest,  and 
he  also  discovered  a  certain  resemblance  in  the  qual- 
ity of  his  soul.  The  poor,  ignorant  laborer  who 
[25] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

starves  in  his  underground  dwelling  with  his  meek, 
crushed  wife  and  pale,  ailing  children,  has  a  bright 
light  constantly  burning  in  his  soul  which  yearns 
toward  the  great  spirit  pervading  all  life.  There  is  a 
deep  spiritual  love  for  the  beautiful  in  nature,  for 
the  beautiful  in  the  flesh,  even  in  the  heart  of  the 
fanatical  Jew  who  always  denounces  the  flesh  as 
unclean  and  dangerous.  Perez  perceives  it  and  ex- 
hibits it  to  all.  There  is  a  golden  heart  in  the  ir- 
ritable, cursing  housewife  who  is  seemingly  a  hell  to 
her  husband ;  and  there  is  a  fresh  spring  of  true  love 
in  the  blood  of  the  religious  devotee  who  talks  of 
women  as  the  daughters  of  the  devil  created  to  cor- 
rupt man's  soul.  There  is  a  passion  for  song,  for 
color,  for  nature,  in  the  heart  of  the  pious  sage  who 
preaches  against  these  temptations  of  the  blood. 
There  is  a  passion  in  the  veins  of  the  bashful,  chaste 
housewife  with  lowered  eyelashes  and  blushing 
cheeks,  who  hardly  dares  to  exchange  a  remark  with 
her  husband. 

The  soul  element  in  the  Jew,  no  mattter  how  high 
or  how  low  his  station  in  life,  how  high  or  low  his 
culture,  is  the  secret  of  his  marvelous  power,  of  his 
great  hold  upon  life,  of  the  indestructibility  of  his 
race.  This  Perez  has  preached  in  the  great  master- 

[26] 


THE  GENIUS  OF  PEREZ 

pieces  that  he  created  in  the  last  period  of  his  liter- 
ary life.  And  this  great  soul  element  that  he  de- 
scribed and  portrayed  in  all  its  splendor  and  glory 
in  the  life  that  surrounded  him,  he  traced  to  the  old 
Hebrew  legend  and  myth.  He  discovered  its  course 
in  the  ancient  Jewish  traditions,  religious  and  social, 
and  followed  out  its  development  in  all  the  ages 
and  all  the  land  of  the  Jew's  suffering  and  persecu- 
tion in  long  captivity. 

It  is  the  soul-element  of  the  Jew — not  his  religion, 
not  his  national  life,  not  conditions  forced  on  or 
assumed  by  him,  that  gave  him  that  miraculous 
existence.  This  Perez  has  consciously  or  unconscious- 
ly preached  to  his  generation  of  Jews.  And  the 
effect  was  tremendous  because  of  the  method  he 
employed.  He  brought  his  great  message  in  the 
form  of  a  great  heart  which  beat  and  pulsated  as  it 
told  its  wonderful  story.  And  because  that  heart 
beat  true  and  warm,  all  responded  to  it.  The  old 
and  young  legend  in  which  Perez  breathed  the  fresh 
spirit  of  his  great  conception  captivated  the  hearts  of 
millions  of  Jews  in  all  countries.  A  new  light  broke 
in  upon  us,  a  new  glory  had  risen,  a  new  happiness, 
a  new  joy. 

For  the  stranger,  the  Gentile,  Perez's  writing  will 
[27] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

be  merely  a  source  of  beauty;  but  for  the  Jew  it  is 
much  more.  It  is  a  source  of  spiritual  strength,  spir- 
itual refreshment.  It  is  to  him  what  true  art  is  to 
those  who  understand;  sweetness  and  light,  beauty 
and  power.  Its  appeal  is  to  the  whole  man,  to  his 
senses  as  well  as  to  his  spirit,,  to  his  flesh  as  well  as 
to  his  soul. 

The  tremendous  evolution  that  the  Jews  in  Russia 
have  undergone  in  the  last  fifty  years  finds  its  artis- 
tic embodiment  in  the  works  of  Perez. 


[28] 


ABRAHAM  LIESSIN 

^Appreciation 


Vtom  EAST  AND  WEST 

July,    1915 


OF  the  small  group  of  Jewish 
idealists  who  took  up  the  struggle  for  literary  fame 
in  the  expiring  years  of  the  last  century,  none  has 
been  so  cruelly  treated  by  the  hand  of  fate  as  the 
youngest  of  them,  Abraham  Liessin.  In  his  little 
family,  misery  and  misfortune  ran  their  full  gamut — 
beginning  with  dire  want  and  ending  with  disease 
and  death.  If  happiness  did  ever  deign  to  smile  on 
him,  it  was  so  faint  and  fleeting  that  it  evoked  in  his 
heart  merely  a  vague  feeling  of  surprise. 

And  yet  if  you  inquire  in  the  literary  circles  of  the 
East  Side  for  the  staunchest  in  spirit,  for  the  most 
faithful  in  ideal,  for  the  most  uncompromising  in 
principle,  none  will  fail  to  mention  Liessin  amongst 
the  very  foremost.  To  appreciate  the  full  value  of 
this  fact,  one  must  have  breathed  the  air  of  East  Side 
journalism  in  the  last  half  decade.  It  is  an  atmo- 
sphere filled  with  the  poisonous  gases  of  cynicism 
and  wantonness,  an  atmosphere  that  corrodes  the 
spirit,  weakens  and  cools  the  blood.  For  one  to 

[31] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

retain  the  vigor  and  ardor  of  youth  in  an  atmosphere 
so  enervating,  and  in  the  teeth  of  3  fate  so  cruel,  is 
indeed  little  short  of  a  miracle. 
*    *    * 

Liessin,  today,  at  the  age  of  forty-four,  is  what  he 
was  eighteen  years  ago,  when  he  first  came  to  this 
country,  a  well-known  revolutionist  from  the  Jew- 
ish ghettos  in  Russia.  He  is  as  cesthetic  and  pas- 
sionate in  his  poetry,  as  sane  and  sincere  in  his  Juda- 
ism, as  critical  and  ardent  in  his  Socialism.  There  is 
this  difference,  however.  Eighteen  years  ago  he 
was  looked  upon  with  suspicion  by  all.  The  lines  of 
the  various  movements  were  in  those  days  very  tight- 
ly drawn.  The  Socialists  feared  Liessin' s  Jewish- 
ness,  the  Nationalists  dreaded  his  Socialism.  His 
poetry  was  steeped  too  deeply  in  the  Jewish  spirit  to 
satisfy  the  radical,  it  trembled  too  powerfully  with 
the  passion  of  revolt  to  appeal  to  the  conservative. 
And  this  intellectual  hostility  blinded  both  factions 
to  the  chief  merits  of  his  poetry,  to  its  beauty  and 
delicacy  of  phrase,  to  its  intense  passion,  genuine 
lyricism. 

That  was  eighteen  years  ago,  when  the  various 
"movements"  were  in  their  youthful  fanatical  stages. 
Today  this  cloud  of  bigotry  has  been  lifted,  and 

[32] 


ABRAHAM  LIESSIN 

were  it  not  for  the  general  indifference  prevailing, 
Liessin  would  now  be  hailed  as  a  conqueror.  The 
mockers  and  despisers  of  former  days  are  now  fol- 
lowing the  road  he  had  been  travelling  all  alone  for 
so  many  long  weary  years. 

There  must  be  a  spark  of  divine  light  in  a  spirit 
that  can  walk  all  alone  and  not  go  astray.  For  what 
is  divine  light  if  not  sincerity  of  heart  united  with 
strength  of  mind,  a  warm  heart,  one  with  an  active 
intellect.  And  only  people  so  blessed  can  proceed 
without  aid  in  spite  of  external  obstacles. 

Liessin's  attitude  of  soul  is  that  of  a  soldier  of 
righteousness.  He  is  not  a  zealot.  His  literary  ar- 
senal is  free  of  poison  arrows,  of  treacherous  weap- 
ons of  any  kind.  His  attack  is  upright,  manly,  di- 
rect; he  never  exaggerates  faults,  never  takes  advan- 
tage of  slips  or  oversights.  His  fight  is  never  per- 
sonal or  for  glory,  but  for  truth. 

And  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  Liessin  stands 
supreme  amongst  the  publicists  of  the  Jewish  press. 
His  judgments  of  events,  his  interpretations  and  con- 
clusions spring  from  a  soil  that  is  fertilized  by  mind 
and  heart,  by  intellect  and  feeling.  With  him  it  is 
neither  hard,  dry  reasoning  nor  soft  vague  senti- 
ment. His  is  one  of  those  rare  minds  that  combine 
[33] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

poetry  and  philosophy,  reason  and  sentiment  in  a 
proportion  of  perfect  harmony. 

His  style,  too,  is  adapted  to  his  method  of  think- 
ing. Liessin  is  one  of  the  very  few  Yiddish  writers 
who  know  the  great  value  of  style  and  who  possess 
it.  His  phrase  is  fraught  with  beauty  and  force; 
his  sentence  strikes  the  imagination  as  well  as  the 
intellect.  In  reading  him  all  your  faculties  are 
aroused,  all  the  strings  of  your  soul  are  touched. 
You  are  urged  to  think,  to  feel,  to  imagine,  to  fancy 
to  yearn,  and  to  demand  at  the  same  time. 
*  *  * 

And  the  material  blows  of  fate  that  have  been 
aimed  at  his  head  for  so  many  years,  have  they  left 
no  marks  or  traces  on  his  spirit?  Has  his  soul  been 
proof  against  that  power  to  which  most  human  be- 
ings yield  so  readily? 

You  must  know  the  man  personally  to  answer 
that  question.  For  the  conception  you  form  of  him 
from  his  writings  is  far  different  from  what  he  is  in 
reality.  Read  his  editorial  writings,  his  leading 
articles  in  the  Zukunft,  the  monthly  which  he  edits, 
and  you  will  imagine  before  you  a  worldly  man  of 
wide  European  culture,  of  broad  knowledge,  of 
deep  sympathies  and  high  ideals.  Read  his  lyrical 
[34] 


ABRAHAM  LIESSIN 

poems,  the  outpourings  of  his  soul,  and  you  will  see 
in  your  mind's  eye  a  being  athrill  with  a  passion 
of  love  of  women  and  yearning  with  pain  for  the 
friendship  of  man.  Read  his  songs  of  revolution, 
and  you  will  picture  before  you  a  heart  full  of  revolt 
against  the  restraint  and  bars  put  upon  life,  social, 
economic,  and  political.  Read  his  ballads  of  Jewish 
ancient  days,  and  you  will  summon  up  in  your  fancy 
a  man  suffused  with  those  wonderful  qualities  of  the 
heroes  of  Jewish  history — their  humility,  modesty, 
and  devotion  to  God  and  to  their  people. 

And  the  composite  picture  of  all  these  concep- 
tions is  that  of  quite  a  wonderful  man,  broad  in 
mind,  deep  in  feeling,  active  in  spirit,  steeped  in  life 
— ever  thinking,  ever  working,  ever  living,  free  from 
the  small,  the  petty  interests  and  ambitions  that  fill 
the  lives  of  most  of  us,  little  people  with  nothing 
bigger  or  higher  to  live  for. 

Meet  him  in  life — a  lonesome  man,  loveless,  shift- 
less, ungainly  in  appearance,  confined  and  narrow 
in  his  interests.  Of  beauty — art,  of  which  he  created 
so  much,  and  of  which  he  is  such  a  connoisseur,  he 
hardly,  if  ever,  speaks.  Neither  will  he  willingly 
indulge  in  discussion  of  events  social,  or  matters  in- 
tellectual. He  seems  to  be  ever  brooding  on  little 
[35] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

events  in  which  personalities,  his  own  and  those  of 
his  colleagues,  friendly  or  hostile,  are  involved.  Of 
these  he  will  speak  and  speak  inexhaustibly,  and 
with  a  passion  and  conviction  that  are  woefully  ex- 
aggerated. 

For  one  who  has  known  the  story  of  this  remark- 
able man,  it  is  not  at  all  hard  to  find  an  explanation 
for  this  narrowness  of  actual  life  and  activity  in  one 
whose  spirit  is  broad  and  deep.  It  proceeds  from 
sick,  shattered  nerves.  His  many  sufferings  have 
weakened  his  body  and  made  his  spirit  over-sensi- 
tive. 

In  the  Ghetto,  victims  of  that  kind  are  not  at  all 
rare.  But  very  seldom  does  it  happen  that  the  af- 
flicted should  succeed  in  saving  his  soul  from  his 
bodily  collapse  as  Liessin  has  done;  very  rarely  does 
the  ideal  element  gain  so  complete  a  victory  over  the 
material.  Liessin  has  been  the  great  wonderful  ex- 
ception. 

Liessin  traces  his  descent  from  one  of  the  most 
honored  families  in  the  Jewish  aristocracy  of  learn- 
ing and  piety.  And  perhaps  it  is  this  inherited  ener- 
gy that  steeled  his  soul  against  the  assaults  of  the 
flesh.  In  his  social  and  economic  theories,  Liessin 
is  a  materialist,  a  convinced  believer  in  those  con- 

[36] 


ABRAHAM  LIESSIN 

captions  that  form  the  basis  of  his  socialistic  philos- 
ophy. But  in  his  own  personal  life,  he  is  like  the 
old  Hebrew  scholar  of  the  Yeshiva,  knowing  little 
and  caring  less  for  the  actual,  living  only  in  his 
thoughts  and  imagination,  constantly  building,  elab- 
orating, perfecting  the  realm  of  his  mind  and  leav- 
ing all  else  to  neglect  and  ruin. 
*  *  * 

The  tragedy  of  Leissin's  life  lies  in  the  complete- 
ness or  rather  complexity  of  his  mental  make-up. 
He  is  a  poet,  a  publicist,  a  journalist,  a  historian, 
and  his  attitude  to  all  of  them  is  about  the  same. 
He  is  just  as  serious  and  careful  with  journalism  as 
in  his  art,  just  as  thoughtful  and  grave  in  his  pub- 
licist articles  as  in  his  studies  in  history.  He  never 
lowers  his  standard,  is  never  disrespectful,  never 
compromising  to  his  pen.  His  high  regard  for  the 
written  word  ill  fits  the  low  stage  to  which  journal- 
ism and  writing  in  general  have  been  reduced  in  the 
present  time.  To  this  perhaps  more  than  to  his 
physical  misfortune  does  he  owe  the  terrible  hard- 
ships he  has  met  with  on  the  road  of  his  material 
life.  Not  until  two  years  ago  was  there  a  time  when 
this  master  writer  was  sure  of  his  next  morning's 
meal  or  next  night's  bed. 

[37] 


ABRAHAM  REISIN 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 
August,   1915 


Do  you  want  to  know  the  truth 
about  the  Jew  in  Russia — not  the  dead  truth  that  is 
inscribed  in  cold  figures  of  gathered  statistics  or  dry 
statements  of  investigated  facts,  but  the  living  truth 
that  is  written  in  letters  of  fire,  thrilling  with  the 
emotions  and  passions  of  happiness  and  sorrow?  Do 
you  wish  to  know  the  Russian  Jew  in  his  Russian 
ghetto  town;  do  you  wish  to  understand  him  in  all 
his  strength  and  weakness,  in  all  his  beauty  and  ug- 
liness, in  all  his  virtues  and  vices?  Then  take  the 
works  of  Abraham  Reisin,  turn  their  pages  slowly, 
read  each  sentence,  each  line  carefully;  and  if  you 
have  a  heart  that  can  beat  in  sympathy  with  others, 
it  will  tell  you  that  your  quest  has  been  found. 

Reisin's  art  is  unalloyed.  His  productions  are  not 
compounded  to  give  lustre  or  color  or  flavor.  He 
draws  his  characters  and  situations  as  he  sees  them 
in  his  mind  and  feels  them  in  his  heart;  and  the  fates 
have  blessed  him  with  a  mind  and  heart  that  pene- 
trate deep  into  the  soul  of  others. 

To  be  sincere  and  faithful  in  art  is  as  difficult  as 


[41] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

to  be  sincere  and  faithful  in  other  activities  of  life. 
The  forces  that  make  for  compromise  are  so  numer- 
ous and  so  persistent.  There  is  the  editor  who  threat- 
ens your  bread,  and  the  critic  who  threatens  your 
glory;  there  is  the  colleague  who  makes  you  jealous 
and  the  vogue  that  makes  you  sceptical.  Then  there 
are  the  hidden  forces  of  imitation  and  worship  and 
fascination  that  blind  and  lead  astray. 

Reisin  was  beset  by  all  these  dangers.  He  came 
into  Yiddish  literature  at  a  period  when  Russian 
Jewry  was  seething  with  "movements,"  when  the 
intellectual  turned  away  with  disgust  and  contempt 
from  the  actual,  and  nursed  ideals,  built  castles.  It 
was  a  period  of  "constructing"  types,  of  creating 
men  and  women  to  suit  principles.  Some  even  gave 
up  the  present  and  turned  to  the  past  where  their 
imagination  was  free  to  roam  in  the  clouds  of  phan- 
tasy and  poetry.  Others  abandoned  the  material 
world  entirely  and  delved  deep  into  the  spiritual 
and  religious  in  all  their  phases,  ranging  from  the 
aesthetic  to  the  ascetic. 

But  Reisin  remained  steadfast.  He  knew  his  mis- 
sion ;  he  understood  his  power  and  refused  to  be  led 
astray.  While  Asch  was  distilling  and  refining  the 
little  Ghetto  town  in  his  poetic  ecstasy,  while  Perez 

[42] 


ABRAHAM  REISIN 

was  shedding  his  rays  to  warm  into  life  the  old  Jew- 
ish legend,  while  Pinski  was  bolstering  up  the  weak 
Jewish  proletariat  with  marvelous  creations  of  pow- 
erful spirits — Reisin  was  following  the  sure  safe 
trail  of  the  artist,  the  trail  of  reality.  God  said  to 
him,  "Go  and  see  what  my  children  are  doing  and 
come  and  report  to  me,"  and  Reisin  cared  not  wheth- 
er they  thought  that  a  mission  for  the  Devil  or  not. 
He  obeyed  his  God. 

Not  that  any  one  dared  to  impute  it  openly.  But 
Reisin  was  looked  upon  with  disfavor  by  the  lead- 
ing Jewish  critics  of  the  old  world  for  his  "bare 
realism."  "We  are  tired  of  those  depressing  pic- 
tures of  poverty  and  sadness  and  misery  that  he  is 
forever  drawing,"  they  said,  "we  are  tired  of  those 
tears  of  despair,  and  sighs  of  hopelessness.  We 
want  a  literature  of  the  'New  Jew,'  the  young  Jew, 
the  Jew  who  is  full  of  hope  and  ambition,  the  Jew 
who  rises  above  his  misery,  on  a  plane  of  poetic 
striving,  a  strong  Jew  who  has  exchanged  brooding 
for  action,  vain  speculating  for  real  building.  Give 
us  a  literature  of  what  the  Jew  wishes  to  be,  let  the 
actual  die  or  rest  in  peace." 

It's  the  old  cry  that  was  heard  on  the  continent  in 
every  land  where  the  realists  refused  to  enter  upon 

[43] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

any  compromise.  Strange,  how  the  truth  annoys  us, 
how  we  seek  out  all  kinds  of  excuses  for  escaping 
it. 

Maupassant  was  called  a  pessimist;  Zola,  a  slan- 
derer; Synge,  a  defamer — all  because  they  told  the 
truth  in  all  its  shadows  and  lights.  Reisin  was  never 
attacked.  None  has  dared  do  it.  But  neither  has  he 
received  the  full  recognition  for  the  great  work  he 
has  achieved.  The  professional  critic  has  been  shy 
of  him;  and  if  it  weren't  for  the  tremendous  popu- 
larity his  works  have  gained  for  themselves,  Reisin 
would  have  to  struggle  hard  to  maintain  his  place 
in  the  front  rank  of  Yiddish  literary  artists,  where 
he  belongs  by  all  the  rights  of  genius  and  art. 

Will  the  Jewish  Russia  as  Reisin  has  depicted  it 
appeal  to  you  or  not?  If  you  are  not  a  Jew  yourself, 
or  if  you  stand  at  a  remote  distance  from  the  ghetto, 
it  will  be  rather  hard  for  you  to  assimilate  its  spirit, 
and  understand  its  soul.  You  will  see  before  you 
the  Jew  with  all  his  faults  and  weaknesses,  you 
will  see  his  pitiful  struggling,  his  helplessness, 
the  comic  and  tragic  disproportionateness  between 
body  and  soul;  you  will  see  all  this  drawn  in  clear, 
bold  lines;  and  yet  you  will  stand  before  the  picture 
puzzled  and  confused. 

[44] 


ABRAHAM  REISIN 

For  real  and  correct  as  the  picture  is,  it  is  suffused 
with  an  atmosphere  of  art  that  gives  it  a  spirit  of  its 
own.  You  may  wish  to  laugh  at  the  Jew's  frailities, 
you  may  wish  to  mock  his  dreams  or  ridicule  his 
aspirations,  but  somehow  you  will  have  absorbed 
the  atmosphere  behind  it,  and  it  will  hold  you  bound 
to  the  artist's  spirit  whether  you  wish  it  or  not, 
whether  you  know  it  or  not. 

And  this  atmosphere  of  Reisin's  creation  is  truly, 
genuinely  Jewish,  because  Reisin  himself  is  a  quin- 
tessence of  the  Jewish  soul.  He  feels  deeply  and 
sees  deeply,  but  his  point  of  view  is  that  of  the  ave- 
rage Jew.  He  never  transports  you  to  the  heights 
of  poetic  ecstasy,  where  all  appears  harmonious  and 
radiant.  He  never  flings  you  into  depths  of  proph- 
etic wrath,  where  all  seems  monstrous  and  ghastly. 
He  stands  on  a  level  with  his  plane  of  vision,  on  a 
level  with  the  objects  he  paints  and  the  images  he 
creates. 

So  if  you  are  remote  from  the  Jewish  spirit  you 
will  be  puzzled  or  perhaps  annoyed.  You  will  see 
the  picture  clearly  and  be  tempted  to  put  your  own 
interpretations  upon  it;  but  the  Reisin  atmosphere, 
the  Jewish  soul  he  breathes  into  it,  will  interfere  and 
disturb  you.  You  will  probably  wish  to  laugh  over 
[45] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

those  two  little  Jews  quarreling  over  the  comparative 
fortunes  of  Rothschild  and  Rockefeller,  but  the 
strange  spirit  of  a  delicate  pathos  will  dampen  your 
mirth.  You  may  perhaps  be  impelled  to  denounce, 
as  a  barbarous  gourmand,  the  tailor  who  enacts  a 
household  tragedy  over  five  potatoes,  but  the  atmo- 
sphere of  true  domesticity  and  the  humanity  that 
surrounds  the  scene,  will  make  you  hesitate  and  con- 
sider. And  so  on  with  every  scene  and  every  char- 
acter. Reisin's  spirit  is  there  to  protect  his  creations 
from  harm,  to  demand  for  them  justice  and  sym- 
pathy. 


Pessimism,  hedonism,  materialism  are  some  of 
the  epithets  used  to  discredit  the  realist  in  art.  To 
Yiddish  literature,  these  terms  cannot  be  applied. 
Reisin,  the  realist,  can  by  no  means  be  accused  of 
despising  life  or  of  debasing  it.  He  loves  life  pas- 
sionately, loves  its  duties  as  well  as  its  pleasures, 
its  sorrows  as  well  as  its  joys.  The  harsh  note  in  his 
realism  is  distinctly  Yiddish;  it's  the  weakness  of  the 
people,  the  lack  of  means,  of  opportunity,  the  in- 
numerable obstacles,  both  physical  and  spiritual,  due 
to  a  complexity  of  reasons,  which  render  the  Jew 
[46] 


ABRAHAM  REISIN 

powerless  to  obtain  all  that  life  offers  and  all  toward 
which  he  strives. 

Wherever  Reisin  casts  his  glance  he  sees  the 
tragic  note  and  he  never  fails  to  strike  it.  Be  the 
character  or  the  situation  ever  so  humorous,  even 
ridiculous,  he  will  inject  into  it  a  drop  of  his  own 
passion,  and  transform  it  completely — the  humor 
will  be  mellowed,  humanized  by  the  sadness  and 
pity  enveloping  it. 


Reisin's  art  is  not  a  sudden  inspiration,  an  ecstatic 
mood,  a  poetic  exaltation.  His  is  a  steady  flame, 
ever  burning  in  his  soul,  lighting  up  all  he  sees  out- 
wardly, and  all  he  feels  inwardly.  Reisin  is  as  much 
of  a  lyric  poet  as  a  realistic  story  teller ;  and  his  lyrics 
are  expressions  of  those  emotions  and  sentiments 
in  which  his  objective  pictures  are  cast.  In  them 
he  sings  the  tragedy  of  his  own  life,  which  is  really 
the  essence  of  the  tragic  elements  in  the  lives  of  all 
Jews,  especially  of  those  living  and  struggling  in 
oppressed  Russia  and  poverty-stricken  Galicia. 

Thus  he  sings  in  one  of  his  very  popular  little 
poems: 

[47] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

/  yearn  for  life,  for  dear,  dear  life, 

So  full  of  joy  and  charm; 
But  cannot  reach  the  beautiful 

And  good, — too  short  my  arm. 

In  his  private  life,  Reisin  is  Bohemian,  or  rather 
shall  we  say,  a  Jewish  Bohemian,  with  no  hold  on 
life,  no  anchorage,  no  moorings.  Homeless,  with 
no  bonds  of  either  family  or  profession  or  vocation, 
he  is  the  Wandering  Jew,  coming  or  going  wher- 
ever his  star  happens  to  lead  him.  Other  artists  with 
none  of  his  genius,  with  but  a  fraction  of  his  talent, 
and  but  little  of  his  popularity,  are  enjoying  a  life 
that  is  more  or  less  secure  and  certain.  But  he  is 
ever  struggling,  ever  warring  with  circumstances. 
His  hard  lot  has  become  a  by-word  in  the  world  of 
Yiddish  writers  and  journalists. 

In  his  numerous  poems  where  he  pries  deep  into 
his  own  soul  he  never  hints  at  his  material  sufferings. 
Probably  it  is  due  to  a  sense  of  delicacy  or  pride, 
but  more  likely  this  physical  struggle  affects  his  soul 
but  superficially.  The  gloomy  view  he  has  of  life 
proceeds  rather  from  the  suffering  of  the  spirit,  the 
struggle  of  the  soul.  Love,  beauty,  power,  justice — 
for  himself,  for  his  people,  and  for  all  humanity — 
this  is  the  craving  that  fills  his  soul  with  despair  and 
[48] 


ABRAHAM  REISIN 

gloom.  One  is  inclined  to  believe  that  material  well- 
being  would  contribute  very  slightly  to  relieve  the 
sadness  in  which  his  spirit  is  always  steeped.  The 
Weltschmerz,  as  the  true  Yiddish  artist  feels  it,  can- 
not be  soothed  by  the  pleasures  of  the  flesh,  nay,  it 
renders  those  very  pleasures  painful. 


[49] 


L.  SHAPIRO 

'The  Impressionist 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 

September,  1915 


/\  PALE,  quiet  face;  slow,  dis- 
tracted movements;  thin,  dreamy  and  strange;  none 
of  that  characteristic  nervousness  and  restlessness  of 
the  Jewish  "intelligent* ;  none  of  that  eagerness  for 
discussion,  passion  for  debate,  impatience  in  argu- 
ment; none  of  the  fire,  the  vehemence,  the  "temper- 
ament" that  so  many  of  our  artists  display  sincerely 
or  affectedly.  Occasionally  you  may  see  him  at  a 
table  in  his  own  cafe  in  the  heart  of  the  Yiddish 
newspaper  row;  you  may  watch  him  writing  a  tale 
or  a  mood,  and  if  you  are  at  all  acquainted  with  his 
"manner"  you  will  be  tempted  to  scrutinize  his  face, 
to  search  for  a  gleam  or  a  spark  of  the  fire  in  the 
soul  of  his  creations;  but  you  will  be  sadly  disap- 
pointed. Always,  always  the  same  distracted  look, 
the  same  dreamy  eyes,  the  same  quiet,  inscruitable 
face. 

This  is  L.  Shapiro — the  exterior  of  him;  the  man 
who  has  written  the  most  powerful  pogrom  stories; 
the  man  who  has  given  Yiddish  literature  its  very 

[53] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

best  impressionistic  pen-sketches  of  the  sea ;  the  man 
who  has  breathed  the  spirit  of  primitive  Jehovah  into 
the  frail  bodies  and  crushed  souls  of  his  present-day 
Jewish  types. 

Artistic,  fascinating,  to  be  sure;  but  oh,  how 
strange.  We  are  not  attempting  to  weigh  his  stories 
and  sketches  in  the  scales  of  realism;  we  are  not 
seeking  to  bring  them  under  the  test  of  truth  or  fact. 
We  realize  from  the  very  outset  that  we  are  dealing 
with  an  artist  who  has  created  a  world  in  his  own 
likeness,  who  compounds  characters  of  his  own  ele- 
ments. And  his  power  of  fascination  is  so  great 
that  we  are  happy  to  enter  into  his  new  world  and 
breath  in  the  atmosphere  he  has  prepared  for  us. 
But  enchanting  as  it  is,  it  fails  to  dominate  us  com- 
pletely. That  strangeness  keeps  intruding  all  the 
time,  and  it  irritates  and  disturbs.  What  is  it  due 
to?  Is  the  artist  always  to  blame  for  his  failure  to 
make  us  captive  to  his  will  and  power,  or  are  we 
to  assume  part  of  the  responsibility? 

When  Shapiro  first  appeared  on  the  horizon  of 
Yiddish  letters  only  the  eyes  of  the  "intelligent* 
were  attracted  to  him.  And  by  them  he  was  imme- 
diately hailed  as  an  original  artist,  original  in  his 
conception  and  in  style.  The  professional  critic 
[54] 


L.  SHAPIRO 

cheered  the  new  manner  even  before  he  thoroughly 
analyzed  the  substance.  It  is  indeed  refreshing  to 
hear  a  new  tone,  a  new  inflection  of  voice,  a  new 
cadence.  And  the  fresh  stream  that  flowed  from 
Shapiro's  pen  was  certainly  irrigating  by  its  style  and 
method,  if  by  nothing  else.  In  place  of  the  old  con- 
ventional language,  loose,  with  no  polish  or  taste  or 
care,  he  brought  a  real  literary  style,  refined,  artistic, 
intellectual,  and  yet  wholly  free  of  the  labored  or 
mechanical.  If  for  nothing  else,  Shapiro  has  earned 
his  place  in  Yiddish  letters  for  taking  it  out  of  its 
old  shabby  mold  and  casting  it  into  a  new  beautiful 
form. 

Even  today,  when  his  very  best  productions  have 
been  in  the  open  light  for  over  a  decade,  Shapiro's 
public  is  very  limited.  Only  those  initiated  into  the 
more  secret  recesses  of  Yiddish  literature  know  of 
him ;  and  even  to  many  of  these  he  is  not  revealed  in 
all  his  subtlety.  How  to  account  for  it?  Partly,  be- 
cause the  little  he  has  written  appeared  in  journals 
of  very  limited  circulation;  but  more  likely  it  is  due 
to  that  strange  element,  that  embarrassing  subtlety 
which  stamps  every  character,  every  situation  and 
every  mood  which  he  has  conceived  and  evolved  in 
his  artistic  soul. 

[55] 


YIDDISH  WRITERS 

I  think  of  his  marvelous  short  story  "The  Cross," 
perhaps  the  most  powerful  tale  in  Yiddish  literature, 
and  what  a  medley  of  conflicting,  colliding  emotions 
pass  through  my  soul.  A  Jewish  young  man  of 
the  idealist  type,  a  revolutionist,  a  dreamer,  who 
has  forgotten  his  own  race,  his  own  family,  in  the 
great  struggle  for  Russian  freedom.  The  one  earth- 
ly light  in  whose  rays  he  basks  is  his  Gentile 
comrade,  the  daughter  of  a  Count,  whose  love  in- 
spires him  to  undertake  acts  for  which  he  is  sure  to 
forfeit  his  life.  Pure  in  his  ideals,  noble  in  his  love, 
courageous  in  his  revolutionary  struggle — the  fa- 
miliar Jewish  revolutionist  of  ten  years  ago — those 
beautiful  sons  of  the  Ghetto  whose  memories  will 
ever  be  a  source  of  inspiration  for  all  freedom  seek- 
ers the  world  over.  But  see  what  Shapiro  has  made 
of  him!  Quite  casually  he  at  first  injects  into  this 
noble  heart  a  strange  coldness  or  rather  a  vague  dis- 
like for  his  mother  who  sacrificed  the  best  years 
of  her  life  for  his  sake.  And  this  hostility  is  the 
nucleus  which  later  on  grows  and  develops  into  a 
fearful,  horrifying  Jehovah  spirit  of  wrath  and  re- 
venge to  the  ugliest,  most  brutal  limits. 

The  sting  of  the  pogrom  is  the  poison  that  trans- 
forms this  twentieth  century  idealist,  the  son  of  the 
[56] 


L.  SHAPIRO 

most  indulgent,  most  forgiving  race,  into  a  monster 
of  the  Jehovah  period.  And  that  sting  is  made  to 
pass  through  that  vulnerable  spot  in  the  soul  of  the 
unfortunate  young  man,  though  that  sick  corner  of 
the  heart  where  the  unnatural  hate  for  his  mother 
lies.  The  conception  of  the  artist  is  wonderful. 
From  the  moment  the  story  enters  upon  its  course 
of  action  the  reader  is  swept  along  by  a  force  mighty 
and  inexorable.  He  is  swept  into  a  world  of  sav- 
ages, where  the  most  brutal  instincts  have  full  sway. 
And  this  hero  of  the  story,  this  noble  young  Jew, 
this  refined  intellectual  and  love-inspired  revolution- 
ist is  seen  to  rise  higher  and  higher  on  this  swelling 
tide,  springing  from  the  darkest  depths  of  human 
primitive  nature.  He  drains  to  the  very  dregs  the  cup 
of  revenge  that  Jehovah  has  handed  him  and  then 
issues  forth  into  the  free  air  of  civilization  to  recover 
and  recuperate. 

The  story  is  not  real,  not  a  line  of  it  can  stand  the 
acid  test  of  psychological  chemistry.  But  it  is  a 
great,  a  grand  artistic  achievement,  nevertheless.  For 
an  artist  has  conceived  it,  nurtured  it,  loved  it, 
named  it  with  his  own  light,  strengthened  it  with 
his  blood.  The  type  is  not  human,  but  it  is  living 
all  the  same.  Call  it  then  superhuman  or  ultra 
[57] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

human.  What  is  really  essential  is  that  it  has  exis- 
tence— that  a  life-giving  power,  an  artist,  has  cre- 
ated it. 

And  this  is  true  more  or  less  of  all  his  other  po- 
grom stories.  To  the  Jewish  reader  even  more  than 
to  the  Gentile  do  the  types  seem  strange  and  unreal, 
for  we  know  the  real  Jew  and  we  realize  his  remote- 
ness from  Shapiro's  creation;  and  that  is  why  the 
great  masses,  who  find  it  rather  a  difficult  task  to 
follow  an  artist  into  new  worlds,  look  upon  Shapiro 
as  a  stranger;  and  that  is  why  he  is  somewhat  of  an 
enigma  even  to  the  more  intelligent  and  real  ad- 
mirers. 

And  this  enigma  grows  more  bewildering  when 
we  turn  to  another  phase  of  Shapiro's  art — to  his 
impressionistic  descriptions  of  nature,  particularly 
those  of  the  sea,  which  he  did  quite  elaborately  when 
he  first  crossed  the  Atlantic  to  this  country  right  af- 
ter the  Russian  pogroms  ten  years  ago. 

For  in  this  series  of  sketches,  Shapiro  is  refined 
almost  to  decadence.  He  is  always  the  "fin  de 
siecle"  artist,  in  all  its  vagueness,  mysticism  and 
polish.  The  sea  is  not  a  great  infinite  power  God- 
like in  its  immensity  and  Devilish  in  its  terror.  He 
never  conceives  it  as  a  devouring  monster  or  an  awe- 

[58] 


L.  SHAPIRO 

inspiring  colossus.  He  is  charmed  by  its  physical 
aspects,  its  battling  waves,  its  foaming  billows,  the 
reflections  of  the  "ragged  sky  into  the  muddy  wa- 
ters." He  watches  the  sea  by  day,  at  sunset,  at  sun- 
rise, at  moonlight  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  mists, 
and  paints  various  aspects  in  beautiful  colors,  ac- 
curate and  artistic. 

And  interwoven  with  these  descriptions  are  im- 
pressions and  little  incidents  and  tales  that  serve  to 
give  to  those  impressions  an  atmosphere  that  hu- 
manizes and  mystifies  at  the  same  time.  Once,  it's 
the  story  of  the  artist  driven  insane  by  the  stillness 
of  the  sea;  then  it's  the, tragic  battle  of  the  descend- 
ing ice-berg  against  the  melting  rays  of  the  sun.  And 
another  time  it's  a  mysterious  suicide  leaving  behind 
him  an  echo  of  a  terror-inspiring  name. 

That  primitive  powerfulness,  that  ruthless 
strength  which  is  the  leading  characteristic  of  the 
pogrom  stories  is  entirely  lacking  in  these  sketches, 
where  it  could  be  introduced  much  more  naturally 
and  truly.  Here  Shapiro  is  for  once  what  his  face 
indicates — a  dreamy,  strange,  vague  mystic.  And  we 
must  add  one  more  quality  which  no  face  can  ever 
betray — original. 

One  wonders  will  those  conflicting  or  rather  in- 

[59] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

harmonious  elements  in  Shapiro's  artistic  make-up 
ever  blend  and  unite  into  one  power?  And  if  that 
happens,  will  it  enhance  or  diminish  the  value  of 
his  art?  Shapiro  is  comparatively  young,  and  he  has 
written  very  little,  even  for  his  young  age.  Perhaps 
he  is  developing  now  that  new  harmony  of  his  art. 


[60] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 
October,   1915 


T       • i  i  i 

HEN  I  wish  to  learn  the 

truth  about  the  life  of  the  emigrated  thousands 
from  the  Russian  pale  in  their  new  home  across  the 
sea,  there  is  one  author  I  turn  to  with  absolute  con- 
fidence; it  is  Z.  Libin,  our  short  story  writer  and 
playwright  in  America."  This,  in  substance,  is  an 
opinion  expressed  by  the  leading  Jewish  critic  in 
Russia,  who  is  personally  acquainted  neither  with 
the  author  nor  with  the  Jewish  Ghetto  in  this  coun- 
try; and  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  literary 
reviewers  here,  who  are  acquainted  with  both,  will 
readily  and  cheerfully  subscribe  to  the  opinion. 

Libin  is  a  true  son  of  the  Ghetto.  He  has  lived  its 
life  in  all  its  tragic  and  comic  phases.  He  slaved  in 
the  sweatshops  two  decades  ago  when  they  flour- 
ished in  all  their  evils  and  horrors.  He  pined  in 
the  tenements  in  those  terrible  years,  when  "lung 
blocks"  and  windowless  rooms  filled  the  East  Side. 
He  knew  all  those  afflictions  so  peculiar  and  so 
familiar  to  the  Ghetto  homes — "Shop,"  Slack," 


[63] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

"Strikes,"  "Sack,"  "Dispossess,"  "Disease,"  "Loaf- 
ers," "Installment,"  so  on  and  on.  He  followed  in 
the  wearisome  path  of  the  more  energetic  and  hope- 
ful who  sacrifice  their  youth  in  an  effort  to  lift  them- 
selves out  of  the  mire  into  a  brighter  life.  Again 
and  again  he  fell  exhausted  by  the  roadside,  again 
and  again  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  joined  that  pro- 
cession in  its  march  onward.  He  was  in  the  very  hell 
of  the  Ghetto  life,  and  passed  through  its  purgatory, 
and  as  he  went  along,  his  literary  mind  accumulated 
and  absorbed  the  material  out  of  which  he  built 
the  edifice  of  his  great  work — his  monumental  short 
stories  and  dramas  that  will,  for  generations  to  come, 
serve  as  a  life  record  of  the  darkest  years  of  the 
immigrated  Russian  Jews  in  this,  their  new  home 
— America. 

Libin's  whole  personal  life,  to  its  very  detail,  is 
told  in  artistic  fashion  in  his  best  sketches.  His  bitter 
experiences  in  the  sweatshop,  his  struggles  with  the 
boss  and  the  foreman,  his  serious  and  comical  blun- 
ders, his  love  and  marriage  and  the  troubles  and 
tribulations  that  came  in  their  wake,  his  suffering  at 
the  sick  beds  of  his  children,  his  career  as  a  news- 
dealer and  as  a  writer  and  dramatist — the  numerous 
disappointments  and  sorrows  and  griefs  that  ac- 
[64] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 

companied  his  every  move  in  life — all  is  related  to 
us  frankly  and  generously,  sometimes  with  a  smile, 
sometimes  with  a  sigh,  and  at  times  even  with  a 
good,  hearty  laugh  at  his  own  expense. 

And  he  thus  bares  his  own  life  not  for  striking 
effects,  not  because  it  is  more  dramatic  or  more  in- 
teresting than  the  life  of  the  average  East  Sider,  and 
certainly  not  because  he  seeks  personal  display.  He 
does  it  for  the  sole  reason  that  he  knows  his  own 
lot  to  be  typical,  that  he  sees  mirrored  in  his  own 
sufferings  and  struggles  the  sufferings  and  struggles 
of  his  many  thousand  brothers  in  the  shop  and  in  the 
tenement  house.  And  he  tells  of  his  own  vicissi- 
tudes, knowing  that  they  will  arouse  in  others  the 
same  responsive  notes  of  laughter  or  tears  as  they 
did  in  him  when  they  occurred,  for  their  souls  are 
formed  of  the  same  stuff  and  in  the  same  furnace 
of  suffering  and  sorrow. 

And  what  he  did  not  live  through  himself,  he  saw 
with  his  own  eyes  and  felt  with  his  own  heart.  I  am 
speaking  now,  of  course,  of  the  better  work  of  our 
author,  the  work  which  made  his  name  famous  in 
all  Jewish  Ghettoes  here  and  abroad.  In  his  later 
days  he  has  occasionally  gone  astray  and  attempted 
to  write  from  pure  imagination.  But  that  work  really 
[65] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

doesn't  belong  to  Libin,  to  Libin's  spirit  and  soul. 
They  bear  only  his  name.  What  is  really  his,  is  his 
in  all  right.  He  personally  dug  out  the  raw  material 
from  the  bowels  of  the  Ghetto  life,  he  personally 
tried  and  essayed  its  worth,  fashioned  and  moulded 
it,  and  created  out  of  it  the  stories  that  thrill  our 
hearts. 

Yiddish  literature  in  America  began  as  an  adjunct 
to  the  revolutionary  movement  in  the  late  eighties 
and  early  nineties,  when  the  East  Side  intelligentsia 
and  youth  were  seething  with  Socialism  and  free 
thought.  In  those  stormy  days  the  agitator  held  sway 
over  the  minds  of  the  active  and  responsive  ele- 
ments; and  literature  was  written  with  the  purpose 
of  assisting  this  dominating  power.  The  agitator 
dwelt  on  the  evils  of  the  system,  on  the  injustice  suf- 
fered by  the  worker  in  the  sweatshop,  on  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  state,  of  the  home,  of  the  temples  of 
learning  and  religion.  Hence  it  was  the  duty  of  the 
literary  artist  to  give  proof  of  these  accusations 
against  the  present  order  of  society  by  depicting  the 
horrors  of  the  worker's  life,  by  painting  it  in  colors 
as  black  as  the  pen  would  permit.  And  this  duty 
was  performed  by  most  literary  men  of  the  time 
with  unquestioning  faithfulness.  They  felt  it  a 

[66] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 

sacred  duty  and  knew  that  the  highest  praise  awaited 
their  fulfilling  it.  Such  was  the  spirit  of  the  times, 
the  demand  of  the  times. 

And  into  this  dangerous  atmosphere — dangerous 
to  literary  life  I  mean — Libin  came  with  his  artistic 
talent.  He  came  as  unsophisticated,  as  blind  and 
credulous  as  the  rest.  He  wanted  to  be  of  help  to 
the  movement,  to  do  what  was  proper,  and  what  the 
agitator  considered  right  and  of  service.  So  he  be- 
gan to  write  of  the  sweatshops,  of  the  tenements,  of 
the  numerous  and  numberless  ills  that  beset  the  poor 
Ghetto  workers.  He  did  what  was  expected  of  him, 
what  he  expected  of  himself.  But  neither  he  nor 
those  whom  he  strived  to  please  noticed  the  new 
foreign  note  that  he,  unconsciously  perhaps,  intro- 
duced in  his  writings.  The  artist  was  getting  the  bet- 
ter of  the  agitator,  the  artist  was  asserting  himself 
in  spite  of  all  injunctions  and  dogmas.  It  was  re- 
markable, almost  miraculous. 

Libin  saw  the  tragedy  of  the  worker,  but  he  could 
not  fail  to  notice  the  comedy  also;  he  saw  the  tear 
of  pain  in  the  worker's  eye,  but  he  didn't  miss  the 
tear  of  joy,  too.  For  whatever  his  code  and  creed 
were  regarding  social  reform,  he  instinctively  felt 
that  his  mission  as  an  artist  was  to  see  life  as  it  is, 
[67] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

and  depict  it  in  true  colors.  And  thus,  Libin  has 
given  us  the  only  real  picture  of  the  sweatshop, 
which  will  stand  the  acid  test  of  the  sternest  and 
most  unfriendly  criticism.  Many  others  have  tried 
their  hands  at  it — they  tried  it  in  verse  and  in  story 
and  in  drama,  but  their  success  is  doubtful.  Of 
Libin's  complete  triumph  there  is  no  dispute. 

His  sweatshop  is  not  a  hell  shot  up  from  the 
devil's  domain  in  the  nether  regions;  his  boss  is  not 
a  demon  delegated  by  Mammon  to  devour  poor 
workers;  his  worker  is  not  a  lamb  born  to  be  slaught- 
ered on  the  altar  of  God.  Libin's  sweatshop  is  a 
human  institution,  and  the  boss  is  human  and  the 
workers  are  human.  But  this  doesn't  for  a  moment 
lessen  its  terror,  nor  does  it  relieve  the  tragedy  of 
the  worker  and  the  tyranny  of  the  boss.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  aggravates  it  because  it  intensifies  the 
truth,  because  it  makes  the  conviction  doubly  im- 
pressive. 

Libin's  sweatshop  worker  is  joyous  at  times,  even 
playful  and  thoroughly  happy.  He  will  play  tricks 
in  the  shop  and  amuse  his  wife  and  children  at 
home.  And  at  times  this  pitiful  slave  is  capable  of 
being  unjust  to  his  fellow  slaves  and  too  hard  on  his 
children.  He  is  human,  thoroughly  human,  and  all 

[68] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 

these  human  qualities  are  his.  But  in  all  these  phas- 
es, agreeable  and  disagreeable,  the  keynote  of  his 
tragic  life  is  never  absent.  The  reader  feels  that  this 
unfortunate  creature  is  a  product  of  the  terrible 
sweatshop,  he  feels  it  in  the  expression  of  his  hap- 
piness, in  the  manifestation  of  his  cruelty  to  his 
fellow  workers  or  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  The  shop 
has  made  him  what  he  is.  This  is  the  truth,  and  it 
cannot  be  concealed.  And  that  is  why  the  sweatshop 
looms  up  before  us  so  awful  and  so  horrifying, 
much  more  so  than  even  in  the  exalted  outburst  of 
the  great  sweatshop  poet — Morris  Rosenfeld. 

And  what  is  true  of  Libin's  sweatshop  is  also  true 
of  his  tenement  house  which  he  painted  on  a  much 
larger  canvas  and  in  much  minuter  detail.  Libin's 
tenement  house  life  is  full  of  the  most  amusing  com- 
edy as  well  as  the  most  heartrending  tragedy.  Just, 
indeed,  is  the  reputation  Libin  has  gained  for  him- 
self amongst  the  vast  mass  of  readers  of  being  the 
greatest  master  at  throwing  his  audience  in  convul- 
sions either  of  laughter  or  of  tears.  A  humorous 
sketch  by  Libin  is  sure  to  draw  a  loud,  healthy  laugh ; 
a  pathetic  story  by  the  same  author  is  just  as  sure  to 
draw  a  genuine,  warm  tear  from  the  very  bottom 
of  the  soul. 

[69] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

Libin  is  unsophisticated.  He  is  like  a  child  looking 
out  upon  life  and  telling  us  what  he  sees  and  per- 
ceives in  his  limited  mind,  as  if  the  view  were  as  far 
and  wide  as  the  human  mind  could  possibly  reach. 
And  to  this  deficiency  Libin  owes  all  his  failures  and 
shortcomings  which  have  been  growing  and  multi- 
plying as  he  advances  in  years  and  in  material  suc- 
cess. As  long  as  Libin  confined  his  art  to  the  reg- 
ions of  his  own  sphere,  as  long  as  he  was  satisfied 
with  telling  us  what  he  saw  and  what  he  felt  in  his 
own  life  or  in  the  lives  of  people  standing  on  the 
same  plane  with  himself,  his  art  was  genuine.  For 
then  he  revealed  to  us  souls  and  hearts,  which  is  the 
main  function  of  art.  But  his  ambition  rose  higher 
than  his  powers.  He  gradually  abandoned  the  field 
of  short  story  and  exchanged  it  for  the  drama  which 
offered  wider  opportunities  in  material  returns,  but 
there  he  failed  very  badly  on  the  plane  of  artistic 
achievement. 

For  there  is  very  little  of  the  dramatic  in,  the  life 
that  Libin  lived  and  observed.  Passions  do  not  rise 
very  high  in  the  heart  of  the  sweatshop  worker,  dra- 
matic conflict  is  very  rare  in  the  dingy  tenement 
home.  The  dramas  enacted  there  are  all  inward 
tragedies,  hidden  deep  in  the  soul.  They  are  Ham- 
[70] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 

letian  dramas  with  all  visible  clash  and  struggle 
missing.  To  write  these  dramas,  a  subtle  power  is 
necessary,  and  even  then  it's  quite  doubtful  whether 
they  would  be  acceptable  to  the  audience. 

So  Libin  resorted  to  the  old  substitute,  to  imagina- 
tion, and  instead  of  dramas  he  created  melodramas. 
It  must  be  said  to  his  credit,  however,  that  at  the 
beginning  of  his  playwright  career  he  tried  hard  to 
be  literary  and  succeeded  to  a  degree  in  a  few  plays, 
but  very  soon  he  discovered  a  new  power  in  himself, 
a  power  to  concoct  melo-stuff  that  found  favor  in 
the  eyes  of  the  great  masses.  The  discovery  was  also 
made  by  the  managers  of  the  Jewish  theatres  and 
before  long,  Libin  became  the  leading  creator  of 
"hits"  on  the  Yiddish  stage. 

Libin,  the  sketch  writer,  the  short  story  artist,  has 
given  place  to  Libin  the  playwright.  For  Libin  him- 
self, for  his  material  well  being,  this  change  was  a 
happy  event;  but  not  so  for  Yiddish  literature.  Years 
ago  when  our  author  published  his  little  master- 
pieces in  the  Socialist  dailies  and  monthlies  he  eked 
out  a  pitiful  living  by  laboring  at  the  cap  making 
trade  or  by  peddling  newspapers  in  the  then  wilds 
of  the  Bronx.  Now  that  he  has  dedicated  his  pen  to 
the  theatre  of  melodrama  he  is  enjoying  a  good  in- 

[71] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

come  on  contract,  and  is  the  envy  of  all  his  col- 
leagues. Occasionally  he  relents,  takes  up  the  for- 
saken pen  and  treats  us  with  an  old  time  story  of 
his.  We  read  it  with  mixed  feelings  of  joy  and  re- 
gret. We  are  happy  of  the  power  that  is  still  his 
and  grieved  at  the  rare  use  he  is  making  of  it. 

Viewed  from  a  different  point  this  regret  of  ours 
may  be  unnecessary.  Even  as  the  writer  of  melo- 
dramas, Libin  is  rendering  important  service  to  Yid- 
dish literature.  Compared  with  most  of  the  other 
productions  on  the  Yiddish  stage,  his  tower  is  con- 
siderably above  them.  Whatever  Libin's  plays  are 
not,  they  certainly  are  clever,  well  constructed,  full 
of  ingenuity  of  plot,  originality  of  humor  and  depth 
of  pathos.  His  dramas  are  never  stale  or  inane  or 
coarse.  The  characters  are  more  or  less  consistent, 
more  or  less  real,  the  atmosphere  is  always  sufficient- 
ly illusive  to  be  tolerable  to  the  more  cultivated  taste. 
In  many  respects  Libin's  melodramas  will  outdo  the 
very  best  plays  of  the  kind  produced  on  Broadway. 

Libin  acts  as  a  restraining  power  on  the  Jewish 
stage.  In  the  last  decade,  the  Yiddish  theatre  has 
followed  the  steps  of  the  American.  It  has  become 
purely  commercial.  The  box  office  determines  which 

[72] 


ZALMON  LIBIN 

plays  are  to  be  accepted  or  rejected.  The  managers 
are  no  longer  satisfied  with  literary  triumphs  or  ar- 
tistic success,  if  the  receipts  are  thereby  limited.  And 
so  it  has  come  to  pass  that  the  better  dramatists  have 
almost  been  banished  from  our  boards.  Popular 
successes  are  always  there  to  push  them  off  and  take 
their  place,  and  the  managers,  ready  as  they  are  to 
pay  lip  service  to  art,  cannot  withstand  the  tempta- 
tions of  profit. 

So  it  is  quite  fortunate  that  Libin  has  intervened. 
He  came  as  a  compromiser  between  the  real  literary 
drama  and  the  cheap  popular  trash.  He  took  a  stand 
midway,  satisfying  the  managers  and  the  mob  with- 
out at  the  same  time  abusing  too  harshly  the  tastes 
of  the  better  classes.  His  melodramas  are  tinged 
and  flavored  with  literature.  They  serve  as  an  edu- 
cator to  the  coarser  palates  of  the  masses  and  as  a 
comforter  to  the  offended  palates  of  the  more  re- 
fined. 

We  are  grateful  to  Libin  for  this  service  he  is  ren- 
dering in  the  interest  of  higher  dramatic  art.  But 
we  would  be  still  more  grateful  to  him  if  he  re- 
mained in  the  field  of  story  writing,  the  field  to 
which  his  real  talent  belongs,  the  field  he  had  so  suc- 
cessfully and  beautifully  cultivated  for  us  and  for 
[73] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

himself  in  those  happy  years  when  he  was  an  artist 
for  art's  sake,  when  he  wrote  from  an  inward  im- 
pulse, from  an  inspiration  of  the  soul,  when  his  art 
was  nothing  else  but  an  ideal,  pure  and  sacred. 


[74] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 
November,  1915 


A  PAINTER  of  sadness,  grief, 

fear  and  horror  in  their  sombrest  colors,  when  they 
border  on  morbidity;  a  portrayer  of  love,  passion 
and  lust  in  their  decadent  stages,  when  they  ap- 
proach degeneracy — this  is  Jonah  Rosenfeld.  Like 
all  really  great  artists  he  cannot  be  labelled  as  be- 
longing to  this  or  that  school.  He  has  been  called 
a  Decadent,  and  compared  to  Andreyev;  but  if  deca- 
dence means  a  disregard  for  truth  or  a  revolt  against 
actuality,  Rosenfeld  is  not  one  of  its  votaries.  His 
characters  may  be  abnormal,  his  situations  revolting- 
ly  inhuman — but  the  keynote  of  realism  is  never 
missing.  The  thrill  of  life  is  always  there.  Every 
story  he  relates  throbs  and  pulses  with  red  blood — 
sickly,  infected,  at  times  even  poisoned;  but  red, 
nevertheless,  red  and  alive. 

Rosenfeld  has  no  eye  for  the  normal.  To  set  his 
imagination  in  action,  an  element  of  abnormality 
must  be  present,  either  in  the  characters  or  in  the 
situation.  His  concern  is  always  with  psychological 

[77] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

analysis.  He  cares  little  for  plot.  Action  is  always 
subordinate  and  at  times  missing  entirely.  Yet  many 
of  his  stories  are  interesting  as  stories.  They  grip 
the  attention  of  the  popular  mind  that  responds 
most  readily  to  the  dramatic  appeal. 

What  more  ordinary  an  event  than  the  casual 
overhearing  of  a  remark  regarding  the  death  of  a 
young  woman  in  a  neighboring  street!  But  in 
Rosenfeld's  story,  "An  Acquaintance,"  the  remark 
falls  upon  the  ears  of  a  hypersensitive,  morbidly  im- 
aginative mind,  and  what  a  remarkable  effect  it  pro- 
duces! This  strange  man  had  seen  the  woman  just 
once  in  his  life,  but  the  news  of  her  death  has  sud- 
denly rendered  her  an  intimate  friend  to  him;  and, 
with  wonderful  psychological  insight,  he  proceeds 
to  reconstruct  the  tragedy  of  her  life,  from  the  few 
details  of  dress,  gestures  and  glances  which  he  had 
gathered  on  that  single  occasion.  And  in  a  subtle, 
mysterious  way  he  grafts  the  tragedy  of  her  life  on 
his  own  conscience. 

"Were  she  alive,  it  would  never  occur  to  me  to 
consider  her  an  acquaintance,  but  that  sudden  death 
worked  a  miracle.  I  felt  that  I  knew  her,  that  I 
even  fathomed  the  remotest  recesses  of  her  soul, 
which  she  had  kept  hidden  from  ail  else." 
[78] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

And  he  goes  on  revealing  her  life  to  us ;  while  we 
stand  with  bowed  heads  over  her  corpse.  This  back- 
ground of  death  intensifies  the  morbidity  of  the 
narrator,  and  produces  an  atmosphere  of  strange 
sadness  about  us. 

"She  was  sitting  on  a  log  close  to  the  door.  Near 
her  was  a  red  headed  young  man  with  a  red  beard, 
red  moustaches,  red  eyelashes,  his  eyes  even  gleamed 
red.  It  was  easy  to  guess  that  he  was  her  husband. 
His  legs  were  crossed.  His  attire  bespoke  the  day — 
the  holy  Sabbath;  a  white  paper  collar;  no  necktie; 
a  cheap,  close-fitting  suit  with  green  stripes;  a  high 
polish  on  his  shoes.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
Sabbath  in  her  dress.  Her  waist  was  calico,  though 
spotless.  She  looked  older  than  her  years;  her  face 
grave  and  embittered,  mellowed  by  an  appealing 
tenderness  which  emanated  from  her  big  brown, 
almost  girlish  eyes.  She  sat  there  quietly,  very 
quietly,  sunken  in  painful  silence.  It  seemed  that 
the  peaceful  Sabbath  spirit  that  reigned  all  along 
the  street  failed  to  reach  her.  She  looked  so  lone- 
some and  forlorn.  It  cut  my  heart." 

And  he  proceeds  to  speculate  on  her  past.  "She 
must  have  been  a  sympathetic  girl,  ardent  and  quiet, 
the  kind  that  is  attractive  to  men.  Yet  did  she 

[79] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

marry  that  red-headed  creature.  She,  doubtless, 
hates  him,  but  I  am  sure  nobody  knows  it.  Her 
sorrow  is  buried  deep  in  her  soul.  .  ." 

"I  crossed  the  street  to  a  spot  from  which  I  could 
observe  her  better.  She  felt  my  presence  and  my 
glances,  and  she  blushed  continuously.  Perhaps  she 
also  read  my  thoughts,  and  knew  that  I  shared  her 
opinion  of  her  husband.  Perhaps,  too,  she  had 
dreamt  once  to  meet  and  marry  a  man  like  me.  .  . 
Yes,  perhaps  she  even  had  loved  a  man  like  me. . ." 

Finally  her  eyes  met  his.  "She  looked  at  me  as 
if  she  had  known  me  a  long  time.  I  also  thought 
her  eyes  very  familiar,  familiar  and  near.  .  ." 

"Now  that  I  knew  she  was  dead,  my  heart  grew 
heavy  just  as  if  I  had  lost  a  dear  friend.  And  in  the 
innermost  depths  of  my  soul,  I  felt  a  shadow  of  a 
thought  stirring — the  thought  that  somehow,  in 
some  way,  I  was  concerned  in  her  death;  that  some- 
how, I  don't  know  why,  but  somehow,  I  was  to 
blame. — Strange,  indeed. 

Even  simpler  in  theme  is  the  moving  story,  "Pro- 
tracted into  the  Sabbath."  In  it  all  the  characters 
are  normal  with  perhaps  the  one  exception  of  the 
little  boy  who  is  narrating  the  story.  The  situa- 
tion is  a  struggle  between  a  command  of  God  and 

[80] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

an  elemental  instinct  in  the  heart  of  a  pious  Jew. 
His  child  has  died  on  a  Sabbath  day  and  to  sorrow 
on  the  Sabbath  day  is  strictly  forbidden.  The  mother 
is  too  weak,  too  human,  to  think  of  God.  The  other 
children  are  too  young  to  realize  God's  word.  He 
alone  knows  his  duty,  and  struggles  to  perform  it. 
Even  while  watching  at  the  bed  of  the  expiring  soul 
he  sternly  commands  that  the  Sabbath  feast  be  pre- 
pared. And  when  death  finally  comes  with  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  he  allows  but  a  few  moments  of  an 
outburst  of  grief  to  the  weak,  prostrated  mother. 
Then  he  bids  her  light  the  candles.  "He  is  still 
ours,  as  long  as  the  Sabbath  lasts."  (Such  is  the 
traditional  belief.)  "Don't  cause  him  grief  by  your 
tears.  Remember,  it  is  the  holy  Sabbath!" 

And  when  she  hesitates,  he  grows  impatient. 
"Feige,"  he  almost  shouts,  "It's  the  Sabbath.  You 
are  forgetting  yourself!" 

He  supervises  the  lighting  of  the  candles  and  the 
spreading  of  white  Sabbath  cloth  on  the  table.  Then 
he  dons  his  Sabbath  coat  and  high  hat  and  proceeds 
to  the  Synagogue  to  "praise  the  Lord  and  rejoice  in 
the  Sabbath." 

"All  traces  of  grief  vanished  from  his  face  on 
stepping  into  God's  house.  He  prayed  more  devout- 

[81] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

ly  than  ever,  he  carefully  exchanged  the  cheerful 
Sabbath  greetings  with  all  his  friends  and  neigh- 
bors." 

Coming  home  he  finds  his  wife  crying  and  wring- 
ing her  hands.  He  looks  at  her  sternly,  greets  her, 
and  then  enters  the  death  chamber  to  greet  his  dead 
child.  In  a  loud  unfaltering  voice,  he  then  proceeds 
with  the  usual  program  of  songs  and  hymns. 

What  a  wonderful,  what  a  weird,  ghastly  perfor- 
mance! The  little  boy  who  has  been  following  his 
father  in  awed  admiration  all  through  the  terrible 
evening,  finally  breaks  down  into  a  delirious  faint. 
The  nerve-wrecking  strain  snaps  at  last.  What  a 
relief! 

This  literary  gem  is  purely  a  study  in  psychology. 
Yet  it  is  fraught  with  dramatic  interest.  Each  little 
event,  the  entering  and  leaving  of  a  room,  the  slight- 
est remark  or  sound,  or  mere  gesture  or  glance 
strikes  us  with  extraordinary  force. 

There  is  very  little  of  beauty  and  tenderness  in  the 
world  in  which  Rosenfeld's  characters  dwell.  The 
homes  are  dreary  and  cold  and  miserable.  The  souls 
are  crushed,  melancholy  and  restless.  Here  and 
there  a  bolder  heart  appears — but  its  strength  is 
spent  in  religious  austerity  or  in  vain,  coarse  protes- 

[82] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

tations.  Even  the  children  are  meditative  and  sad. 
The  girls  are  in  constant  dread  of  spinsterhood ;  the 
married  women  are  slaves  either  to  the  husband,  to 
the  children,  or  to  the  home.  Even  parental  love 
hardly  ever  comes  to  the  surface;  now  and  then 
it  betrays  itself  in  an  act  or  in  a  phrase,  but  it  quick- 
ly withdraws  its  face  as  if  afraid  of  the  light.  It  is  a 
world  of  "death  and  night" — the  name  chosen  by 
the  author  for  the  collection  of  his  stories. 

The  wretched  Jewish  life  in  Russia  is  not  all  what 
Rosenfeld  presents  it  to  be.  It  has  poetry  and  beauty, 
and  it  certainly  abounds  in  love  and  kindness.  But 
Rosenfeld  has  no  eye  for  that.  His  imagination  be- 
comes active  only  when  the  shadows  of  death  and 
night  descend.  Most  of  his  tales  happen  at  midnight 
or  in  the  evening,  and  very  often  in  cold  or  dreary 
weather. 

Here  are  some  scenes  of  the  Home,  the  typical 
Jewish  home  in  a  small  Ghetto  town  in  Russia — the 
home  as  Rosenfeld  sees  it  in  all  its  wretchedness  and 
misery. 

"Early  in  the  morning  the  hubbub  commences. 

"The  sisters  have  taken  each  other's  waists  by  mis- 
take. One  misses  her  hairpins,  the  other  has  lost  a 
stocking,  the  third  is  looking  for  a  shoe;  Leizer,  the 

[83] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

brother,  has  mislaid  his  belt;  the  father  is  hunting 
for  his  prayer-shawl;  the  mother  is  helping  all  in 
their  various  efforts.  General  confusion — a  rush 
hither  and  thither.  Then  all  make  a  scramble  for 
the  water  pail.  Every  one  wants  to  be  the  first  to 
wash.  .  ." 

This  is  the  morning  scene  all  year  round,  summer 
and  winter.  Finally  they  all  leave  the  house.  Ab- 
raham, the  father,  drives  away  in  his  little  wagon; 
Leah,  the  oldest  daughter,  goes  to  the  factory;  Zel- 
da,  the  younger,  to  the  dressmaking  establishment; 
Leizer,  the  son,  to  the  carpenter  shop;  Kreine,  the 
youngest,  to  the  milliner's.  The  mother,  Beile,  is  the 
last  one  to  leave  with  a  heavy  basket  of  eggs  on  her 
arm. 

"Beile  locks  the  door.  The  beds  are  left  unmade, 
and  in  the  kitchen  stand  all  the  pots  and  dishes,  un- 
washed. Every  night  the  question  of  washing  the 
dishes  is  raised,  each  shifting  the  job  to  the  other, 
and  all  refusing  to  do  it.  The  mother  argues  that 
she  is  old,  that  she  works  hard  all  day,  so  she  ought 
to  be  spared  this  additional  work  at  night.  She  adds 
that  all  her  sweating  is  done  for  the  home.  To  this 
Zelda  replies  that  she  works  still  harder.  'Bending 
your  back  over  your  sewing  is  much  harder  than  go- 

[84] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

ing  about  with  a  basket  on  the  arm.'  And  she,  too, 
works  for  no  other  than  the  'home.'  Then  Leah  pre- 
sents her  argument:  'What  about  my  toiling?  To 
stand  all  day  on  one's  feet  is  much  harder  than  to  sit 
and  work.'  Kreine  still  remains,  but  she  also  refuses. 
If  they  only  knew  how  she  is  driven  about  all  day 
from  one  errand  to  another,  they  would  not  put  this 
additional  task  upon  her. 

"So  the  dishes  again  remain  unwashed.  The  fa- 
mily gathers  at  night  for  supper.  This  over,  Abra- 
ham immediately  goes  to  bed,  be  it  winter  or  sum- 
mer. 

"All  day  the  family  is  working;  each  one  is  living 
in  a  world  of  his  own. 

"Abraham  is  out  in  the  street  with  his  little  wagon, 
waiting  for  customers.  In  the  winter  he  thinks  ot 
the  warm  bed  at  home  and  of  the  hot  soup  that  is 
waiting  for  him  there.  In  the  summer  he  thinks  of 
the  terrible  heat  and  figures  how  long  he  will  have 
to  wait  before  coming  home,  where  he  will  be  able 
to  wash  his  face  with  cold  water. 

"Beile's  thoughts  depend  on  her  day's  business. 

If  the  sales  are  good  she  is  happy  and  impatient 

for  the  night  to  come,  so  that  she  can  tell  of  her 

luck.    And  if,  after  walking  all  day,  her  purse  is 

[85] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

empty,  she  resolves  not  to  mention  it  at  home.  She 
pours  out  her  misery  to  another  woman,  an  acquaint- 
ance in  the  market  place. 

"Zelda  dreams  of  a  young  man  who  will  fall  in 
love  with  her  (She  is  pretty) .  Of  a  sudden  she  will 
give  up  her  job.  She  will  be  happy  and  recall  these 
hard  days  of  work  and  suffering,  when  she  had  to 
toil  15  hours  a  day  for  13  rubles  a  month,  and  when 
she  couldn't  afford  to  buy  a  baked  apple  of  little 
Sarah  who  comes  every  day  at  the  dinner  hour.  She 
will  wear  a  beautiful  dress  and  proudly  relate  to  all 
that  she  is  the  daughter  of  a  mere  pushcart  peddler. 
She  will  cook  meat  twice  a  day. 

"Kreine  thinks  only  of  being  sent  on  an  errand 
when  she  will  get  a  tip,  a  penny  for  a  glass  of  tea; 
and  Leizer  dreams  of  becoming  a  'boss'  some  day, 
and  of  having  a  sign  suspended  outside  of  his  shop 
with  big  letters:  Carpenter  Shop,  Leizer  Yubelnick. 

"Leah  never  bothers  about  the  future.  She  only 
wishes  for  the  Sabbath  to  come;  for  on  Sabbath  she 
can  sleep  a  little  longer.  She  never  gets  enough  sleep 
on  weekdays. 

"And  Saturday  is  really  the  best  day  for  the  fa- 
mily. Saturday  morning  there  is  no  quarreling.  Leah 
stays  late  in  bed  with  her  sister  Zelda,  and  they  tell 
[86] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

each  other  stories.  Then  they  get  up  and  help  each 
other  comb  their  hair  and  put  on  their  corsets.  The 
brother  has  gone  to  a  cafe  very  early,  where  he  sits 
leisurely  at  a  glass  of  tea.  The  mother  has  on  her 
white  kerchief,  and  the  father  his  holiday  coat. 
Kreine  has  put  a  blue  ribbon  in  her  braid.  And  in 
the  afternoon  when  the  elder  girls  leave  the  house 
for  a  walk,  Beile  escorts  them  to  the  door  and  look- 
ing after  them  as  they  proceed  down  the  street,  she 
thinks:  'How  I  wish  they  were  both  married';  and 
coming  to  the  house,  she  says  to  the  father,  'You 
hear,  they  both  can  be  led  under  the  canopy  at  the 
same  time.' 

"Abraham  takes  off  his  big  boots  and  stretches  out 
on  the  bed  his  bare,  dirty  feet.  Beile  lies  down  near 
him.  They  contemplate  the  ceiling  for  some  time, 
and  thus  thinking  their  eyes  close.  Beile  sleeps  quiet- 
ly, but  Abraham  begins  to  snore. 

"When  they  awake,  they  feel  a  heaviness  oppress- 
ing their  hearts.  The  Sabbath  peace  has  gone  to- 
gether with  their  sleep.  For  a  few  minutes  they  lie 
quietly.  Then  one  drops  a  single  word  to  which  the 
other  responds.  Their  remarks  grow  longer  and  fre- 
quent until  they  find  themselves  carrying  on  a  con- 
versation. Both  talk  at  the  same  time.  He  does  not 

[87] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

hear  what  she  is  saying,  neither  does  she  follow  him. 
'  'Beile,'  he  looks  at  her  and  meeting  her  eyes,  he 
continues,  'I  sometimes  figure  how  the  poor — 

'  'Those  fellows — what  do  you  mean,  you  don- 
key— ' 

'  Tor  instance  the  money  I  put  up  every  day  for 
the  pushcart — 

'  'It  costs  me  ten  kopeks  a  day.  Just  think,  three 
rubles  a  month — 

'  Tor  this  sum  we  could  prepare  an  excellent 
soup — ' 

'  'In  three  months  I  could  buy  a  cart  of  my  own — 

'  'Soup  sufficient  for  all — ' 

'  'And  what  a  cart — ' 

'  'Now  we  go  dry  every  day — 

'  'Yes,  we  are  drying  up.' 

"Abraham  happens  to  overhear  the  last  word. 
The  conversation  stops  for  a  few  minutes  and  both 
think  of  their  'drying  up.'  They  again  exchange 
sighs  and  groans,  and  when  they  have  had  enough 
of  that,  their  glances  begin  to  wander  to  each  other 
and  they  strike  up  another  conversation. 

"They  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  about,  but  they 
find  it  difficult  to  bring  out  the  words  from  their  'in- 
side.' Finally  they  take  up  the  topic  of  their  children. 
[88] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

'  'It's  time  the  girls  got  something,'  says  Beile. 
'When  I  was  Leah's  age,  I  had  been  married  five 
years  and  had  a  son.' 

"The  last  word  reminds  her  that  that  son  died 
three  years  ago. 

1  'Woe  to  his  mother.  So  young  and  with  a  face 
so  bright,  he  lies  rotting  in  the  ground.' 

1  'Wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  I  were  in  his 
place?  What  am  I — but  an  old  broken  skull.  What 
good  am  I?  What  can  I  do  for  the  girls?  If  he 
were  alive  I  wouldn't  have  to  worry.  'Mamma!'  he 
said,  'I  won't  marry  until  I  get  husbands  for  Leah 
and  Zelde!'  And  he  really  didn't  marry.  Woe  to  his 
mother.' 

Abraham  lies  gazing  with  glassy  eyes  at  the  ceil- 
ing, and  his  wife's  words  come  pouring  into  his  ears. 
His  heart  grows  heavy.  He  sees  his  dead  son  stand- 
ing before  him.  The  house  is  hushed,  but  one  feels 
as  if  the  soul  of  the  dead  is  walking  about  on  tip- 
toe; and  in  the  stillness,  a  voice  seems  to  be  talking 
in  the  language  that  only  souls  can  understand,  a 
language  that  only  hearts  can  respond  to  with  a  sigh 
or  a  groan.  They  both  lie  there  in  silence,  until  the 
day  steals  out  of  the  house  and  night  steals  in. 

'  'It's  dark,'  says  Beile. 

[89] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

'  'It's  dark,'  Abraham  answers. 

"Both  rise,  stretch  and  yawn.  For  a  few  minutes 
silence  prevails. 

'  'I  don't  feel  quite  well,'  Beile  says. 

"  'Neither  do  I,'  says  Abraham,  shriveling  up.  A 
loud  yawn  is  heard. 

"They  both  say  their  evening  prayers,  and  then 
exchange  the  usual  Saturday  greetings.  Silence 
again. 

'  'Will  you  stay  in  the  house?'  Beile  asks,  wrap- 
ping herself  up  in  her  shawl. 

'  'I  will  go  to  see  a  neighbor,'  he  answers,  some- 
what vexed. 

'  'And  I  will  go  to  see  a  woman  neighbor,'  Beile 
says. 

"She  turns  down  the  lamp.  Both  go  out  and  the 
house  remains  empty." 

What  a  cheerless  picture — not  a  ray  of  love,  not 
a  spark  of  joy,,  even  Sabbath  is  spent  in  sad  thoughts 
and  in  bitter  quarrels.  The  Sabbath  afternoon-rest, 
which  has  been  considered  the  symbol  of  peace  since 
the  Talmudic  days,  degenerates  into  a  disgusting 
snorting,  followed  by  disconnected  foolish  conversa- 
tion. 

And  yet  the  entire  picture  is  strictly  and  artistically 
[90] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

realistic.  It  is  the  home  viewed  from  a  certain  angle, 
the  home  studied  in  a  cold  gray  light,  drawn  in 
white  and  black,  with  no  poetic  coloring,  no  senti- 
mental shading.  It  is  the  home  as  it  impresses  a 
sensitive  soul  that  responds  only  to  sadness  and  sor- 
row. 

The  home  forms  a  background  to  many  of  Ros- 
enfeld's  strictly  psychological  tales.  The  Jew  is  do- 
mestic; a  home  builder,  a  family  lover.  Every  indi- 
vidual of  the  race  stands  out  in  best  relief  when  seen 
in  a  home  atmosphere;  his  mental  processes  are  best 
analyzed  when  taken  in  connection  with  the  family 
group.  And  this  is  another  striking  evidence  of  how 
faithful  our  author  is  to  life  and  reality.  His  entire 
perspective  is  correct,  the  subject  as  well  as  the 
background,  as  well  as  the  atmosphere. 

Here  is  another  family  scene.  The  story  is  of  a 
weak,  hysterical,  morbid  woman  growing  faint  and 
losing  consciousness  in  the  falling  shadows  of  a  cold 
winter  evening.  Rosenfeld  finds  her  in  her  home 
surrounded  by  her  little  children's  prattle  of  dark- 
ness and  fear  that  freezes  up  the  very  blood  in  the 
mother's  veins. 

'  'Mamma,  it's  dark',"  a  child's  voice  is  heard  in 
the  dark  room. 

[91] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

'  'Mamma,    light    the    lamp',''    another    childish 
voice. 

The  mother  lies  in  bed  troubled.  Her  husband  is 
in  the  factory,  four  versts  out  of  town.  He  has  left 
home  without  his  coat — how  will  he  get  back  in  this 
cold  weather? 

"  'Mamma,  I'm  cold.'  ' 

'  'I,  too.' ' 

'  'Come  into  bed.' ' 

The  children  ply  her  with  silly  questions  and  she 
keeps  thinking  of  her  husband.  She  is  sure  he  will 
catch  cold.  What  a  terrible  storm! 

The  children  talk  of  the  wind  blowing  over  the 
room,  and  of  the  black  cat  that  cannot  be  chased  off 
the  quilt. 

When  they  stop  talking,  her  imagination  sets  to 
work.  She  sees  her  husband  covered  with  sweat, 
hurrying  out  coatless  into  the  cold  air  to  get  home. 
The  wind  strikes  him  full  in  the  face.  He  comes 
home,  coughing,  sick!  Immediately  he  gets  to  bed, 
refusing  to  eat  or  to  tell  of  his  pain.  At  night  he 
awakes  in  high  fever.  No  money  for  a  physician — 
and  now  he  is  lying  on  the  floor — dead. 

The  children  resume  their  prattle.   They  ask  her 
for  stories  about  robbers.  Her  fear  and  nervousness 
[92] 


JONAH  ROSENFELD 

keep  on  growing.  The  children  feel  her  shivering 
and  cold.  "  'Mamma's  feet  are  cold.  Let  me  warm 
you'."  '  'Me,  too'." 

A  pause.  Then  they  begin  to  prattle  about  ghosts 
and  spirits  that  wander  in  the  night.  They  are  afraid. 
They  imagine  somebody  is  knocking  at  the  shutters. 
They  embrace  mother  and  ask  if  she  too  is  afraid. 

'  Mamma,  you  once  had  a  little  girl.   You  told 
us  so.   She  died.   Why  did  she  die?'  '     '  'Was  she  a 
pretty  girl?'  '       '  'Is  she  now  lying  in  a  grave?'  " 
'  'It  must  be  cold  there.  Snow  and  mist'." 

'  'Did  you  have  a  father,  mother?" '     '  'Did  he 
die?"      '  'And  your  mother — did  she  die  also?' ' 

And  so  they  go  on  prattling  their  sombre  and  sad 
questions.  Finally  the  father  comes,  and  then  only 
is  she  discovered,  lying  unconscious  in  the  embrace 
of  her  little  ones. 

The  characters,  the  atmosphere,  and  the  back- 
ground in  this  sketch  form  a  marvelous  unity.  The 
night,  the  frost,  and  wind,  the  cat,  the  prattling  chil- 
dren all  combine  to  awaken  these  morbid  thoughts 
in  the  weak,  nervous  woman.  She  lies  in  her  bed, 
helpless,  unable  to  offer  the  least  resistance.  Each 
sombre  suggestion  forces  her  soul  a  little  nearer  to 
the  dark  seas  of  death.  Her  own  home,  her  own 
[93] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

family,  the  sources  whence  she  draws  her  very  life, 
are  the  agents  of  her  destruction.  They  are  one  with 
her  weak,  morbid  spirit,  one  with  her  nervous,  fear- 
laden  soul. 

Sorrow,  sadness,  night,  and  death  everywhere. 
Rosenfeld  discovers  them  in  the  peaceful  home,  in 
the  play  of  innocent  children,  in  the  love  of  young 
hearts,  even  at  the  wedding  festivity.  He  rarely  tells 
a  story  without  the  presence  of  the  suggestion  of 
death  in  it. 

They  are  alike  in  their  morbidity — the  respected, 
well-to-do  Cantor,  who  hears  nothing  but  praise 
from  his  community,  and  the  coachman  who  stands 
alone  in  the  cold  winter  night  waiting  for  a  fare. 
The  joy  of  living  is  never  present  in  any  of  his  char- 
acters— be  they  rich  or  poor,  coarse  or  refined, 
healthy  or  sick. 


[94] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

^-Appreciation 


From  EAST  AND  WEST 
December,   1915 


Yv  HEN  the  future  historian  of 
Yiddish  literature  will  survey  the  range  of  its  high- 
est peaks  in  the  first  century  of  its  life  his  eye  will 
rest  simultaneously  on  Perez  and  Sholom  Asch.  The 
particular  criterion  employed  will  yield  different 
results  as  to  which  one  tops  the  other;  but  none 
will  differ  as  to  their  dominance  in  the  long  chain 
of  predecessors  and  contemporaries. 

Sholom  Asch  was  only  twenty-four  years  of  age 
when  he  created  his  little  epic  "The  Town" ;  and  the 
eleven  years  that  time  has  added  to  his  life  since 
have  seen  his  literary  powers  growing  and  widening. 
"The  Town"  is  the  embryo,  or  shall  we  rather  call 
it,  the  nucleus  of  his  genius.  In  it  are  revealed  the 
lyricism  of  his  poetry,  the  realism  of  his  observa- 
tion, the  romanticism  of  his  dreams,  the  paganism 
of  his  philosophy.  In  it  we  trace  in  delicate  outlines 
the  old  and  the  young  Jew,  the  Jew  of  the  vanishing 
patriarchal  security,  and  of  the  new  civilized  unrest, 
the  Jew  of  traditional  faith  and  absolute  trust  in 

[97] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

God,  and  the  Jew  of  earthly  ambitions  and  lowly 
ideals.  We  perceive  them  emerging  gradually,  al- 
most imperceptibly,  from  waves  of  poetry  that  beat 
from  the  soil  below  and  the  sky  above.  And  real 
as  these  figures  are,  they  seem  delusive  and  roman- 
tic, submerged  in  the  overpowering  seas  of  emotion. 

"The  Town"  is  the  keynote  to  Asch's  genius  and 
art.  In  his  succeeding  work  his  portrayal  of  men 
has  grown  more  definite  and  more  vigorous.  His 
powerful  sense  of  realism  has  asserted  itself  and 
has  led  him  to  delve  into  the  least  attractive,  the 
least  inviting  outlets  of  the  Jew's  suppressed  energy 
in  the  lands  of  his  suffering.  His  poetic  power,  too, 
grew  more  conscious  of  its  elemental  force,  of  its 
pagan  qualities;  and  he  sought  his  themes  in  heroes 
of  Biblical  days,  in  the  clash  of  primitive  passions 
and  primitive  gods  and  also  in  the  new  paganism 
of  modern  revolutionary  literature. 

The  first  generation  of  Yiddish  literature  suffered 
greatly  from  the  danger  that  ever  lurks  in  the  high- 
ways and  by-ways  of  art,  the  danger  of  tendency. 
To  teach,  to  enlighten,  to  expose,  to  destroy,  to  build 
— each  literary  light  of  our  early  period  chose  one 
of  these  for  his  motto  and  aim.  Even  Perez  was  be- 
set by  this  peril  most  of  the  time — traces  of  the  ef- 

[98] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

fects  are  to  be  detected  in  some  of  the  most  artistic 
works  of  this  period. 

Perhaps  this  was  inevitable.  The  Russian  Jew  of 
the  Ghetto  towns  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  had  much  greater  need  of  the  reform 
and  enlightenment  of  knowledge  than  of  the  edifica- 
tion and  ennoblement  of  art.  Whether  it  be  the 
result  or  the  cause  of  circumstances,  Asch  escaped 
the  greater  menace  almost  completely.  His  art  has 
very  seldom  been  weakened  by  tendency,  has  very 
seldom  been  made  to  serve  a  purpose,  a  cause,  be  it 
ever  so  high,  ever  so  sacred  to  his  own  soul.  In  the 
terrible  revolutionary  upheaval  in  the  Jewish  towns 
of  Russia  at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  when  the 
entire  Jewish  youth  was  drawn  into  the  vortex  and 
confusion  of  strife,  Asch  remained  loyal  to  his  art. 
Not  that  he  was  indifferent  to  the  momentous 
events,  not  that  those  terrible  days  failed  to  stir  his 
soul  and  heat  his  blood.  Nay,  he  saw  all,  he  absorbed 
and  responded.  But  this  he  did  not  as  a  worker, 
not  as  a  participant  in  the  struggle,  not  as  a  zealot, 
or  a  believer  or  soldier;  but  as  the  artist,  as  the 
dreamer,  philosopher  and  interpreter  and  painter  of 
emotions  and  impressions. 

This  is  also  true  of  his  attitude  to  the  agitation! 
[99] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

over  the  Jewish  problem  that  shook  Russian  Judaism 
in  those  days  of  storm  and  unrest.  The  questions  of 
Zionism,  nationalism,  cosmopolitanism,  the  revival 
of  Palestinism,  the  amalgamation  of  national  and 
revolutionary  principles,  the  neo-chassidism,  these 
and  many  other  creeds  that  sprang  into  life  during 
those  memorable  days  influenced  Asch  not  as  a  cru- 
sader for  one  cause  or  the  other,  but  as  an  interpreter 
of  them  all,  as  an  artist  purely  and  faithfully. 

In  the  comparatively  short  period  of  his  literary 
activity,  Asch  has  gained  wide  popularity  in  the  cul- 
tural spheres  of  Russia,  Germany  and  Poland.  His 
dramas  have  often  appeared  in  the  leading  theatres 
of  Berlin,  Warsaw  and  Petersburg.  His  stories  have 
been  welcomed  in  the  best  periodicals  of  those  coun- 
tries. Though  one  of  the  youngest  of  Yiddish  writ- 
ers, his  fame  in  the  non- Yiddish  world  has  not  been 
equalled  by  any  one  of  his  predecessors  and  contem- 
poraries. 

How  to  account  for  it?  Wide  popularity  doesn't 
necessarily  proceed  from  superior  qualities,  recogni- 
tion in  strange  lands  isn't  always  the  result  of  mer- 
ited triumphs.  But  in  the  case  of  Sholom  Asch  such 
is  the  truth.  The  young  Yiddish  literateur  has  en- 
tered the  world  of  fame  by  his  own  effort,  his  own 
[100] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

power  and  strength.     No  accident  of  any  kind  has 
assisted;  the  hand  of  fate  was  entirely  absent. 

The  international  artistic  world  was  first  attracted 
by  the  marvelous  canvas  on  which  his  work  was 
wrought.  That  background  of  nature;  those  living, 
musing,  feeling  suns  and  clouds  and  streams  and 
rocks  and  clods  of  soil  and  blades  of  grass;  the  soul 
that  throbs  in  dark  recesses  of  the  forest  and  exalts 
in  the  beams  of  the  sun;  the  voice  that  cries  out 
God's  love  and  tenderness  and  sympathy  from  the 
depths  of  the  darkness  at  night  and  the  glory  of 
light  by  day — this  has  struck  a  responsive  chord  ii> 
every  artistic  soul  that  had  the  good  fortune  of 
reading  our  author  either  in  the  original  or  in  trans- 
lation. 

The  nature  element  in  Asch's  works  is  character- 
istically his  own,  and  also  beautifully  his  own.  For 
Asch  deals  with  nature  just  as  he  does  with  his 
human  beings.  He  paints  it  faithfully,  realistically, 
but  while  he  draws  the  lines  and  puts  on  the  colors, 
he  breathes  into  it  his  ov/n  soul,  the  warmth  of  his 
own  blood.  Unlike  the  Biblical  legend  of  God's 
voice  being  heard  only  in  the  gentle  breezes,  Asch's 
tenderness  and  gentleness  pervade  all  manifesta- 
tions of  nature — be  it  a  stormy  sea,  a  haunted  wood, 
[101] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

frightening  shadows  or  oppressive  skies.  For  to  Asch 
all  that  is  living  is  good  and  beautiful,  even  the  evil 
and  ugly — God  is  in  all. 

And  perhaps  it  is  this  quality  more  than  any  other 
that  has  rendered  Asch's  men  and  women,  his  situa- 
tions and  conflicts,  so  acceptable  to  all  readers 
among  Jews  and  other  people.  Asch  has  tempered 
realism  with  idealism,  he  has  breathed  his  own  ro- 
mantic spirit  into  the  hard  facts  of  life.  He  has 
exalted  the  commonplace  into  the  higher  plains  of 
dreamland  and  fancy. 

In  the  hands  of  the  ordinary  craftsman  this  task 
would  lead  to  a  bungling  in  one  direction  or  an- 
other. Either  the  realistic  element  would  be  weak- 
ened by  the  idealistic  or  vice  versa ;  and  critics  would 
deplore  the  grafting  and  advise  pruning.  But  in  the 
hands  of  the  master,  the  marvelous  feat  was  ac- 
complished. The  harmony  amongst  the  various  el- 
ements renders  the  edifice  a  veritable  wonder  of 
conception  and  execution.  The  critic  dares  not  in- 
terfere, dares  hardly  to  analyze  and  examine  the 
elements  individually.  He  is  overcome  with  admira- 
tion. 

Rigid  realists,  I  mean  artists  who  believe  in  di- 

[102] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

vesting  themselves  completely  of  their  heart  and 
soul  and  paint  things  as  their  thinking  mind  sees 
them;  critics  who  believe  in  the  supremacy  of  this 
mode,  will  find  little  to  praise  and  commend  in 
Sholom  Asch.  For  a  realist  of  this  kind,  he  most 
surely  is  not.  From  this  category  of  artists  he  stands 
removed  at  a  distance  immeasurable.  But  it  is  equal- 
ly wrong  to  call  him  a  romantic  and  poet,  and  rel- 
egate him  to  the  regions  of  art  that  are  visited  only 
for  refreshing  youthful  dreams  and  invoking  fancies 
and  sentiments,  for  a  temporary  warming  up  of  the 
soul  and  heart. 

For  Asch  is  a  realist,  only  he  is  more  than  that. 
If  the  suffering  of  his  creatures  doesn't  make  us 
storm  and  rage,  if  the  cruelty  of  his  characters  doesn't 
call  forth  denunciations,  if  the  situations  and  events, 
be  they  ever  so  beautiful  and  poetic,  inspire  in  us  but 
a  vague  longing,  a  soft  tender  yearning  and  nothing 
else — this  is  not  because  the  realism  of  the  character 
and  situations  are  defective  but  rather  because  they 
are  inspired  with  a  peculiar  spirit,  because  they  are 
immersed  in  a  peculiar  atmosphere — the  spirit  and 
atmosphere  that  are  wholly  and  peculiarly  Asch's 
own. 

Asch  sees  the  drama  of  life  in  all  its  tragedy  and 
[103] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

comedy  as  clearly  as  the  most  faithful  at  the  shrine 
of  realism.  He  sees  the  injustice  of  nature  and  the 
perversities  of  man;  the  heroism  of  the  obscure  and 
the  weaknesses  of  the  conspicuous.  And  what  he 
sees,  he  paints.  The  pictures  are  all  there,  hundreds 
of  them,  crowding  all  the  pages  of  his  many  vol- 
umes But  over  them  are  shed  the  rays  of  Asch's 
artistic  soul,  and  they  are  transformed  to  the  vision 
of  our  conscience.  A  softness,  a  tenderness  is  wafted 
over  them,  and  we  absorb  it  together  with  the  out- 
lines and  colors  of  the  scenes  proper. 

Thus  we  behold  the  Jewish  daughter  sacrificing 
her  dark  tresses,  the  pride  and  divinity  of  her  pure 
and  delicate  heart  on  the  altar  of  fanaticism.  We  see 
her  struggling  against  the  dark  forces  of  dogma  and 
superstition,  and  yielding  to  them.  But  all  the  time 
that  this  tragedy  is  being  enacted  in  all  its  grimness 
and  cruelty,  we  do  not  for  a  moment  grow  indignant 
or  impassioned  in  any  way.  We  accuse  no  one, 
blame  no  one,  not  even  fate.  For  the  purity  and 
tenderness  that  emanate  from  her  beautiful  soul 
absorb  also  us,  and  just  as  she  is  unable  to  be  harsh 
or  hard,  so  are  we.  And  together  with  her  we  yield 
finally  to  the  very  forces  that  are  exerted  upon  her. 
We  yield  together  with  her,  blindly  but  sincerely, 
[104] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

overcome  by  pity  and  love  for  the  one  whose  suffer- 
is  just  as  great,  if  not  just  as  noble  and  beautiful. 

And  we  undergo  a  similar  experience  while  fol- 
lowing the  tragic  fate  of  little  Yosel,  the  child  that 
was  born  old  in  a  little  Ghetto  town  of  Poland  to 
die  young  in  a  Ghetto  tenement  of  the  East  Side. 
We  follow  his  frail  body  and  delicate  soul  in  all  the 
stages  of  their  wanderings,  on  the  earth  below  and 
in  the  clouds  above.  We  see  him  turned  back  from 
the  gates  of  this  country,  sentenced  to  be  torn  from 
his  mother  and  father  and  cast  back  across  the  dark 
ocean  into  the  arms  of  an  indifferent  or  perhaps 
worse  relative.  We  see  him  dreaming  of  the  great 
day  when  he  will  be  permitted  to  return  into  the 
fold  of  his  family.  And  when  his  great  dream  is 
finally  fulfilled,  we  pass  with  him  through  the  in- 
tense spiritual  sufferings  that  the  new  life  and  new 
environments  bring  so  suddenly  upon  him.  We  see 
him  bend  and  break  beneath  the  burden  of  his  pain; 
we  behold  the  delicate  soul  take  leave  forever  of 
the  frail  crushed  body. 

And  suffering  with  him  are  his  parents,  his  sister; 

each  with  his  or  her  tragedy.   The  atmosphere,  too, 

surrounding  the  creatures  is  full  of  longing  and 

yearning,  partings  of  friends  and  breaking  up  of 

[105] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

homes;  physical  and  mental  hardships,  fear  and  ig- 
norance and  helplessness. 

And  yet,  midst  all  that,  we  remain  quiet  and  se- 
rene. The  heart  is  filled  with  pity,  the  soul  is  heavy 
with  sympathy  and  love,  the  spirit  goes  out  in  a 
vague  yearning  to  those  unfortunates.  But  we  are 
not  stirred  to  passion,  our  minds  are  not  inflamed. 
The  artist  has  infused  the  spirit  of  his  own  soul  into 
the  tragedy  and  that  spirit  casts  upon  us  a  vague  and 
dreamy  painfulness,  nothing  more. 

It  has  been  said  that  Asch  is  defective  in  the  dra- 
matic sense,  and  yet  some  of  his  dramas  have  met 
with  considerable  success  in  the  theatres  of  various 
lands.  There  is  plenty  of  drama,  plenty  of  action  in 
Asch's  writings,  in  his  tales  as  well  as  his  plays.  But 
the  effect  they  produce  is  rather  unique,  hence  the 
misjudgment,  hence  also  the  difficulty  experienced  by 
the  producers  in  accounting  for  his  successes  and 
failures  with  the  various  audiences. 

This  peculiar  quality,  this  characteristic  atmo- 
sphere with  which  Asch  endows  all  his  creations, 
is  both  his  power  and  his  weakness.  Its  strength 
consists  in  its  being  wholly  his  own,  in  the  wonder- 
ful appeal  it  makes  to  the  reader,  in  the  transforma- 
tion it  works  on  all  it  touches.  But  it  is  weak  be- 
[106] 


SHOLOM  ASCH 

cause  it  fails  to  stir  the  deepest  depth  of  our  active 
self,  because  it  encourages  the  musing,  dreaming 
tendencies  of  our  natures,  because  while  under  its 
influence,  we  become  too  subjective,  we  feel  the 
heart  obtruding  itself  too  prominently  in  our  con- 
sciousness. 

But  Asch  is  a  young  man,  very  young  compara- 
tively speaking.  Life  hasn't  yet  had  time  to  harden 
his  delicate  sensibilities  and  dull  somewhat  his  ten- 
der nerves.  When  the  mellowing,  ageing  pro- 
cess of  time's  workshop  will  be  done,  Asch  will 
come  forth,  in  the  full  of  glory  of  his  many  powers 
under  the  control  of  a  strong  mind  and  steeled  spirit. 

The  future  holds  for  us  a  still  greater  Asch  than 
the  Asch  of  today.  What  a  glorious  and  inspiring 
hope! 


[107] 


LEON  KOBRIN 

^Appreciation 


from  EAST  AND  WEST 

January,    1916 


p  OR  a  whole  generation 

Kobrin  and  Libin  were  the  leading  writers  of 
Yiddish  fiction  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  They 
took  up  their  pens  about  the  same  time  when  they 
arrived  in  this  country  at  the  age  of  twenty,  and  they 
developed  along  the  same  lines,  from  the  short  story 
to  the  drama  and  then  to  the  novel.  And  their  suc- 
cess in  popularity  and  in  material  advancement,  was 
almost  identical.  In  the  minds  of  the  great  mass  of 
readers  and  theatre-goers  the  one  name  always  sug- 
gests the  other. 

Yet  how  widely  different  are  these  two  authors 
in  their  art — in  their  conception  and  handling  of 
themes. 

I  have  spoken  of  Libin  on  a  previous  occasion — of 
his  humor,  sympathy,  tenderness  and  gentleness,  of 
the  seas  of  love  and  pity  in  which  all  his  tenement 
house  and  sweat  shop  characters  are  immersed — of 
the  simple  truth  stamped  on  the  faces  of  all  his 

[ill] 


LEON  KOBRIN 

creations,  of  the  characteristic  atmosphere  and  back- 
ground in  each  canvas  of  his  painting. 

Kobrin  belongs  to  a  different  school  entirely — one 
that  is  far  more  ambitious,  and  in  which  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  achieve  success.  Kobrin  has  sought 
for  his  genre  the  elemental  passions  of  man  at  crit- 
ical moments  when  they  are  least  controllable,  or  in 
beings  where  they  are  never  under  restraint.  He  has 
grappled  with  the  elemental  forces  in  human  nature 
and  has  attempted  to  draw  them  in  their  bareness 
and  brutality,  discarding  all  neutralizing  and  weak- 
ening admixtures. 

This  is  by  no  means  all  of  Kobrin ;  but  it  is  Kobrin 
at  his  height,  Kobrin  at  his  best,  the  part  of  Kobrin 
that  has  a  store  of  vitality  which  may  keep  him  alive 
for  a  term  of  years  of  longer  or  shorter  duration. 

And  because  he  has  chosen  a  task  so  difficult,  the 
critics  are  at  extreme  variance  as  to  the  success  of 
his  achievements.  Some  go  into  ecstasies  over  his 
dramatic  powers,  for  the  clash  of  elemental  forces 
must  necessarily  be  furious;  while  others  turn  from 
him  completely  for  the  utter  lack  of  artistic  atmos- 
phere, which  gives  his  products  the  appearance  of 
journalistic  "stories"  or  of  well  told  anecdotes. 

Kobrin  has  undertaken  a  most  difficult  task  in- 
[112] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

deed,  and  if  for  nothing  else,  he  has  merited  praise 
for  the  very  attempt,  for  the  ambitious  straining. 
For  this  much  will  be  conceded  by  all  his  detractors 
as  well  as  his  admirers,  that  his  efforts  have  all 
been  sincere,  artistically  sincere.  In  this  field,  that 
borders  so  closely  on  the  sensationally  vulgar  and 
obscene,  Kobrin  has  taken  care  to  keep  within  the 
bounds  that  his  own  artistic  powers  have  worked 
out  for  him.  The  evidence  of  an  earnest  searching 
into  the  psychological  workings  of  the  characters 
is  plentiful;  in  his  situations  too  he  is  always  on 
guard  to  divert  the  attention  from  the  mere  vulgar 
to  the  general  struggle  between  the  dramatic  agen- 
cies. He  never  forgets  his  aim  of  writing  literature 
and  not  mere  stuff  for  selling  purposes. 

The  effort  he  unmistakably  makes, — how  does  he 
succeed?  Here  we  are  again  on  disputed  ground. 
Shall  we  say  that  he  succeeds  in  a  measure?  Perhaps 
that  would  be  nearest  to  the  truth.  The  measure, 
however,  will  have  to  be  determined  by  each  of  his 
readers  according  to  his  individual  estimate  of  the 
author's  merit  and  failures.  Kobrin  does  not  belong 
to  that  class  of  artists  whose  powers  stand  above 
and  beyond  dispute,  whose  gifts  cannot  be  reduced 

[113] 


LEON  KOBRJN 

to  a  measurable  size.  He  is  not  of  the  class  in  which 
we  include  Perez,  Asch  and  Reisin. 

Rarely  does  Kobrin  write  a  story  that  is  entirely 
free  of  melodramic  effects  or  sentimental  garnish- 
ing; rarely  does  he  prefer  psychological  analysis  to 
physical  action.  And  what  other  explanation  is  need- 
ed for  the  wide  popularity  he  enjoys  among  the  vast 
reading  masses,  and  the  doubtful  fame  that  is  his 
in  the  narrow  circle  of  better  critics? 

His  admirers  compare  him  to  Maupassant  and  to 
the  Russian  Tchechov  for  the  bare  stark  realism  of 
most  of  his  writing.  This  also  is  true  within  limits. 
His  themes  do  indeed  remind  one  of  that  school  of 
unconventional  artists  who  put  truth  above  all  else, 
but  not  so  his  treatment  and  execution.  He  lacks  the 
art  of  the  Frenchman  and  the  psychology  of  the 
Russian. 

The  future  historian  will  undoubtedly  award  a  re- 
spectable place  to  our  author.  For  whatever  our 
opinion  be  of  him  when  measured  by  the  absolute 
standards  of  art,  he  certainly  has  earned  a  position 
in  the  scheme  of  development  of  our  literature.  As 
indicated  above,  Kobrin  was  the  first  to  introduce  the 
struggle  of  primitive  passions  into  Yiddish  Art — I 
mean  in  their  beastly  savage  intensity,  in  their  un- 
[114] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

bridled  ferocity.  Others  have  followed  his  footsteps 
and  far  outstripped  him ;  but  he  was  the  pioneer  and 
for  that,  Yiddish  letters  will  always  owe  him  a  debt 
of  recognition  and  gratitude. 

About  one  year  ago  a  leading  Yiddish  monthly 
published  a  short  serial  of  Kobrin's  which  displayed 
the  best  and  most  characteristic  powers  of  the  au- 
thor. It  was  called  "Apartment  No.  3"  and  is  an 
attempt  at  portraying  the  inside  of  a  disreputable 
house  in  all  its  horrors,  crime  and  sin.  The  mistress 
of  the  apartment  is  an  elderly  woman,  kindly,  moth- 
erly in  her  conversation,  firm  in  her  religious  be- 
lief, but  devoid  of  all  human  feeling  where  "busi- 
ness" is  concerned.  The  hero  of  the  story,  the  pro- 
curer, is  the  impersonation  of  all  animal  strength 
and  passion,  a  savage  ready  to  kill  at  the  least  pro- 
vocation, always  plotting  destruction  of  his  prey,  and 
yet  irresistible  in  his  fascination  for  women,  be  they 
ever  so  virtuous,  ever  so  strongly  intrenched  in  their 
principles  of  morality  and  purity. 

The  story  is  frank  and  brutal  —  event  follows 
event,  the  innocent  victims  are  dragged  to  their  fate 
by  savage  instincts  and  inflamed  passions.  And  each 
event  is  crowned  by  a  melodramatic  catastrophe, 
boiling  and  raging  in  the  well  known  style.  Now 

[115] 


LEON  KOBRIN 

and  then  the  author  pauses  for  a  moment  to  attempt 
a  short  scrutiny  into  the  souls  of  his  creatures,  but 
he  is  either  too  weak  or  too  busy  for  such  a  task.  Just 
a  dash  or  two  and  he  hurries  on  with  the  story.  The 
events,  the  dramatic  clashes,  rush  before  the  eyes  of 
the  reader  in  a  constant  whirl  of  flesh,  glowing  with 
forbidden  lust,  of  eyes  ablaze  with  sin,  of  depravity 
running  mad  in  an  outburst  of  riot.  And  amidst 
this  raving  and  raging  of  passion,  knives  are  drawn, 
shots  are  heard  and  innocent  victims  are  hurled  to 
death. 

Is  it  a  story  of  the  dime  novel  variety?  No,  though 
the  resemblances  are  very  many  and  very  striking 
indeed.  True  indeed,  there  is  too  much  action,  too 
much  drama  and  far,  far  too  little  character  drawing 
and  psychological  insight;  true  also  that  the  "apart- 
ment" though  drawn  in  all  its  physical  details,  is 
without  atmosphere,  without  "soul"  so  to  speak.  Yet 
there  is  an  unmistakable  seriousness  on  the  part  of 
the  author.  One  can  see  it  in  the  tone,  in  the  effort 
to  breathe  life  into  the  characters,  in  the  signs  of 
restraint  at  the  intensest  moments.  One  must  con- 
clude that  Kobrin  meant  well  even  if  he  did  not 
succeed  well. 

This  then  is  Kobrin  the  artist,  so  much  as  there  is 

[116] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

of  him — possessed  of  a  high  sense  of  the  dramatic, 
a  realist,  a  portrayer  of  the  externals,  journalistic  in 
his  attempts  at  psychological  analysis — creating 
good  stories  but  poor  characters,  good  situation  but 
poor  atmosphere,  and  withal  sincerely  and  seriously 
devoted  to  his  work  and  to  his  art,  exploiting  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  all  the  gifts  with  which  nature 
has  endowed  him. 

And  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  he  devotes  so  much 
of  his  time  to  the  writing  of  dramas.  Kobrin  has 
been  identified  with  the  Jewish  stage  for  the  last 
twenty  years  or  so,  and  to  his  credit  must  be  ascribed 
some  of  the  very  best  tragedies  and  comedies  presen- 
ted in  the  Jewish  theatre  of  this  country.  Unlike 
some  of  his  colleagues  he  has  never  lowered  his 
standard  for  the  gratification  of  the  managers.  He 
is  as  serious  and  well  intentioned  in  his  dramas  as 
in  his  stories  and  novelettes.  In  all  the  exigencies 
of  the  theatre,  in  all  its  compromises  with  melo- 
drama and  popular  fads,  Kobrin  has  remained  stead- 
fast and  faithful  to  his  principles  of  art.  And  he 
has  paid  dearly  for  it.  He  was  made  to  suffer 
neglect  and  had  the  cold  shoulder  of  indifference 
turned  to  him  at  every  manager's  door.  Yet  he  held 
out  and  always  came  back  triumphant. 
[117] 


LEON  KOBRIN 

It  was  his  power  of  dramatization,  his  execellent 
sense  of  technique  of  the  stage  that  saved  the  day 
for  him  in  the  end.  It  was  also  his  attitude  of  seri- 
ousness, his  effort  to  achieve  artistic  success  that 
helped  him  in  his  troubles.  The  managers  have 
learned  by  long  and  repeated  experiences  that  there 
is  always  an  audience  of  some  intelligent  theatre-go- 
ers ready  to  come  and  appreciate  a  work  by  Kobrin, 
ready  to  applaud  the  managers'  willingness  and 
the  players'  effort  to  yield  to  the  desires  of  those 
classes  that  are  of  necessity  less  numerous  than  the 
crowds  who  are  atracted  by  the  cheap  hodge-podge 
of  the  inferior  writers. 

And  yet  it  must  be  said  that  Kobrin' s  dramas  are 
far  from  deserving  the  name  of  true  literature.  The 
weaknesses  we  have  discovered  in  his  stories  are  in 
full  evidence  in  his  dramatic  works.  The  plot,  and 
sometimes  the  idea  behind  the  plot,  absorb  the  at- 
tention of  the  writer  to  the  neglect  of  all  else.  There 
is  plenty  of  physical  action,  but  much  too  little  of 
spiritual  and  moral  development  in  his  characters. 
There  is  also  a  lack  of  artistic  background,  of  a 
distinctive  atmosphere  that  puts  the  stamp  of  the 
writer's  soul  and  spirit  upon  his  work. 

[118] 


NINE  YIDDISH  WRITERS 

In  line  with  his  sincere  devotion  to  his  art,  are 
Kobrin's  labors  as  a  translator  of  foreign  literature 
into  Yiddish.  He  has  indeed  devoted  a  great  part 
of  his  time  to  this  work  with  much  praiseworthy 
results.  His  translations  of  Maupassant,  Zola, 
Tchechov,  and  many  other  European  writers  are 
done  with  sincerity  and  love.  His  easy  and  simple 
style  render  him  the  translator  par  excellence  of 
foreign  authors. 


[119] 


U 


X-3U71 


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